Queen and Country, Book 1: Proof of Concept
by SheWhoScrawls
Summary: When a mysterious and loathsome professor arrives at Thorndon Hall, Emily and Ariana's lives are quickly turned upside down. Emily soon loses everything, and is forced to flee to London, where she finds that her destiny is far different than she'd imagined. First in a series. OC centered. Rated T for mild profanity and some violence/disturbing images.
1. Ulterior Motives

_A/N: At last, here is the reworked version of the first book in my OC series. The title may be subject to change, as it is a working title, so don't hesitate to let me know if you have any suggestions. As mentioned in the summary, you guys have __**cjnwriter **__to thank for this being up the day after I wrote it. She is beta-reading for me, so we all need to commend her for being generally awesome. Thank you to everyone who is reading this, and taking a step, whether it be your first or your one hundredth, into the AU/OC world of the Sherlock Holmes fandom. Please enjoy! -SWS_

* * *

**_~Queen and Country~_**

* * *

**_~Book 1: Proof of Concept~_**

* * *

_** ~Chapter 1: Ulterior Motives~**_

The view from the library's bay window was everything it had always been. The window panes formed a transparent yet solid barrier between myself and the picturesque hills outside.

It wasn't that I couldn't step out the front door and break that barrier, not at all like I didn't have any freedom. I had freedom, so long as it didn't take me far from home.

But all I'd ever known existed within those boundaries. It would surprise most people how quickly being confined to an area of twenty miles becomes tedious. This was the reason the library was my haven, my preferred place. So many of these volumes could take me so far from home without me ever leaving my favorite plush armchair.

This morning I'd woken up with the same view out of my window that I'd seen every morning for what was now stretching into eternity. But it was another one of those mornings when I yearned for something more.

As I stood in front of the window, I looked down at the book in my hand. It was _Treasure Island, _a recent publication by Robert Louis Stevenson. The printing date was less than five years ago, and Father wouldn't have cared enough about the maturing interests of his children to include recent works of literary entertainment in the massive library had Mother not insisted that we procure a copy.

I took another glance at the lush, green hillsides before settling down into the armchair, which was placed in front of the window but not directly facing it, so as to give the perfect angle and amount of light required for daytime reading.

I opened the book to chapter one and began reading the treasured favorite once more, relishing the rich tone and power of the words.

_Part 1: The Old Buccaneer_

_Chapter 1: The Old Sea Dog at the "Admiral Benbow"_

_Squire Trelawney, Dr. Livesey, and the rest of these gentlemen having asked me to write down the whole particulars about Treasure Island, from the beginning to the end, keeping nothing back but the bearings of the island, and that only because there is still treasure not yet lifted, I take up my pen in the year of grace 17-, and go back to the time when my father kept the "Admiral Benbow" inn, and the brown old seaman, with the sabre cut, first took up his lodging under our roof..._

When I had finished the fifth paragraph, my attention broke away from the page with the sound of echoing footsteps heading from the front of the library to where I was, at the back window.

I tensed, and started to develop a headache upon thinking that Mrs. Hunter, head of the housekeeping staff, might be disturbing my peaceful reading to inform me that she was going to wash my curtains. Instead, I heaved a sigh of relief when a more familiar, youthful voice called out for me.

"Emily!"

"I'm back here!" I called back.

The footsteps began to sound more hurried, and a few seconds later, a familiar face appeared around the corner. A face identical in every feature to mine, and flushed with excitement and urgency.

I arose, setting down the open book in my seat. "Ariana, is everything all right?"

She grabbed my arm and pulled me behind one of the shelves, as if someone could see us conversing in the openness of the otherwise empty room. Then my twin sister began to speak in a soft voice, as though someone could be eavesdropping on us – again in the otherwise empty room. "Do we know any tall, respectably dressed professors recently arrived from London?"

I narrowed my eyes at her. "None come to mind," I answered cautiously. "Why?"

"Father has a visitor. I was passing the dining hall as he was showing this outsider inside. They shook hands and their attitude is obviously quite friendly."

"Did you hear them discussing these facts you have named?"

She shook her head. "No, but I did see some indications which proved them true."

"And these are?"

"First of all the fact that he is a professor is betrayed by the fact that there is chalk residue between his right forefinger and thumb. I noticed it when he shook hands with Father."

"But why a professor? Why not just a teacher?"

"He teaches college level mathematics. His coat was hanging in the hall, and I found this in his pocket." From the pocket of her skirt she pulled a worn and wrinkled piece of paper.

I crossed my arms and glared at my sister. "You are _not _telling me you went through his pockets and actually _took _things."

She shrugged. "When Father has a 'friendly' visitor, especially all the way from London, wouldn't it be only hospitable to introduce him to his children? Besides, you and I both know you'd have done the same."

I sighed and snatched the paper from her hand, staring at it.

_Visiting lectures_

_- Cambridge_

_- Oxford_

_- Edinburgh_

_Assignments to collect:_

_Darcy_

_Phillips_

_Teller_

_Kelley_

I looked up in puzzlement at my sister. "This involves mathematics how?"

She peeked at the paper I held and grabbed it, flipping it over. "Wrong side."

Eyebrows raised, I looked down at the other side of the paper. The formula itself I could not decipher, but fortunately, it was labeled.

_The Binomial Theorem as Presented by Sir Isaac Newton_

_(a+b)__5 __= a__5 __+ 5a__4__b + 10a__3__b__2 __+ 10a__2__b__3__ + 5ab__4 __= b_

I cleared my throat and handed the paper back to her. "So far I follow. But the recently arrived from London?"

"This was also in his coat pocket." She pulled two more slips of paper out and handed them over for my inspection.

Train tickets, the stamped first half of a round trip. Victoria Station, in London, to Cambridge, and so on to Suffolk, and Thorndon Station. Dated 12th August, 1887. Today.

I nodded and gave her back the tickets. "I see. You do not think this visit is what it seems to be."

She fixed me with a look. "Nothing has been as seems with Father since Mother passed away."

I nodded, knowing how right she was. "How do we 'accidentally' get introduced to this mysterious professor?"

Ariana smiled. "I already thought of that. We'll walk into the dining hall, not realizing Father has a guest, and ask to take our horses out for a little exercise."

"How will we know to find him there?"

"We asked Mrs. Hunter."

I nodded in agreement, and we shook hands, sealing the bond with an unspoken sisterly oath.

* * *

We stepped through the large double doors and into the dining hall. "Father," I asked right away, "could Ariana and I take out the horses for a ride? We'd be home by dinner, of course – oh, I'm sorry, I did not realize you had a visitor." I allowed my gaze to fall on the guest, who was sitting across the table from my father, and who had stood as I entered.

I took in the man's appearance.

As Ariana had said, he was tall. Much taller than Father. His forehead was domed, and his eyes deeply sunken, and those small, beady, dark spheres stared out at the world with an extraordinary keenness. The whole head was engaged in some constant oscillation from side to side, almost as a cobra, poised to strike, and yet those glassy, dark eyes remained fixed immovably on my sister and I.

I, as Ariana had, observed the chalk residue upon his right hand. His shoulders were rounded, presumably from so much time bending over a desk. There were wrinkles around his mouth and receding hairline, but I had a sneaking suspicion that these were not due to age, but more likely experience in his field.

"Ah." Father's brow crinkled, before he turned to his guest. "Emily, Ariana, this is an old acquaintance of mine, Mr. Moriarty. James, these are my daughters."

The man's mouth turned upwards in a smile. I did not sense any emotion or happiness behind it. It appeared to me to be forced. "A pleasure, ladies." To each of us he performed a sweeping bow.

Father spoke again. "James and I were business partners long ago. He wasn't that far away from our humble estate and decided to pay me a visit."

"James" gestured with outspread arms. "I wouldn't want to keep either of you from your ride. I'll be staying for dinner, so there will be plenty of time to converse then, I am sure."

With consent from Father, we left. Once the heavy, sound proof wooden doors were closed, Ariana turned to me. "Father doesn't have business partners," she told me. "And you saw that train ticket; he was deliberately headed for Thorndon."

I took a deep breath before speaking the words. "Father's lying to us."

* * *

_A/N: Hooray, chapter 1 is complete! Please let me know what you think so far, since artists in a melancholy mood like nothing better than compliments on their work. I confess to being rather like Holmes when he gets in a bad mood... I'm also like him in other aspects of my life, which my family finds to be disturbing but awesome. Oh, and I'm not positive, does anyone know if that's actually the binomial theorem? I just copied it from a book. Anyway, hope you enjoyed, and please, please review and stay tuned for next chapter! -SWS_


	2. Formal Curiosity

_A/N: Hey, everyone! I have the second chapter for you guys, thanks for being patient with me - and of course for reading, it is appreciated. Again, you all have __**cjnwriter **__to thank for the quality of this, as I never would have caught most of the stuff without her pointing it out to me. So if you're feeling particularly thankful, stop by her profile, hit the PM button, and give her a virtual hug. Of course, you're always welcome to PM me as well, if you're a member on the site. This author needs some serious support to get up off her bum. Enjoy this! -SWS_

* * *

**_~Chapter 2: Formal Curiosity~_**

* * *

I poked my head into the back room of the stables, where the young stable boy could usually be found whittling a piece of wood he'd found behind the estate. "Jamie?"

Wood shavings covered an area of the floor, but the room itself was devoid of human presence. I shrugged lightly, putting the question of where he was aside and hanging up my riding gloves.

"I saw the two of you returning and wanted a word with you," said a voice behind me.

I started and turned around, seeing Professor Moriarty leaning comfortably against the wall, fingering something inside his pocket. "I hope it was not a requirement for Ariana to be present, as she has already returned to the house." I kept my voice measured and perfectly cool, hoping to make the point that I did not like the looks of this man.

He waved a hand in dismissal. "I can speak to her later. But right now..." he trailed off, cocking his head at me.

I sat down on the bench, changing back out of my boots, but I kept my eyes fixed on him. "Why must you speak to me alone? What could this possibly be about?"

He opened his mouth partway, hesitating before speech. "I would like to tell you that you put on a very good show this afternoon, pretending you did not realize I was there as an excuse to be introduced."

I froze in the act of buttoning my left shoe. After a moment's pause I slipped the button the rest of the way through the small hole and stood up. "Was it honestly that obvious?"

Moriarty half smiled. It could more appropriately be called a smirk. "Apparently not to your father."

"Is that all?" I had snatched my hat from the peg and held it expectantly. "Or are you going to reveal to me how you knew I was pretending?"

His dark eyes languidly traveled to all corners to the stable, but then they fixed again on me, undoubtedly monitoring my body language. "Your sister went through my coat pockets."

He did not reveal how he had known this, nor did I expect him to. "And she undoubtedly told me of your arrival."

He nodded, but said nothing. I decided to continue, taking a step closer to him. He showed no reaction.

"I know you are a professor of mathematics. And I know that you are not here on a friendly visit."

He did not flinch. "Pray continue."

I did so – gladly. "The train tickets show where you were _planning _to go. You weren't just riding by Thorndon and decided to stop in. You had previously bought a ticket here from Cambridge. Your visit here was very much deliberate."

He replied calmly. "I do not see anything directly wrong with my actions."

When I next spoke, I was surprised to hear how cold my tones had become. "There is the fact that you did not bother to correct my father when he said your decision was spur of the moment." I jammed my hat onto my head with alarming force. "You would, I think, find it a good idea to inform my father of the real reason for your visit, whatever that might be."

Moriarty elicited another of those half smirks. "Your father knows very well the reason I am here," he said. "I thought we'd established that he lied to you and your sister, by telling you this was a friendly visit."

Near the doorway, I paused. "So I was correct," I said, "in saying that it was not."

Then I turned to walk out the door.

"Tell your sister," called Moriarty after me, "that she really should stop snooping. It might get her into a lot of trouble one day."

* * *

Dinner had been a rather quiet affair for Ariana and I, until Father and the Professor broke out of their conversation.

Father turned towards us. "James and I have some business matters to settle," he explained, "so I hope you girls wouldn't mind terribly if he occupied a guest room for a couple of nights."

Ariana and I froze.

Moriarty looked at us, then turned to Father. "If this will be a complication, Peter, I'll be more than willing to procure a room in town."

Father afforded a sharp glance at us. "That won't be necessary, James, my daughters will just need to adapt to a small adjustment in their lives."

I managed to keep a calm outward demeanor, but I could feel Ariana's fist clenching in her lap. I could sense the thought running through her mind. _We've made larger adjustments before. _

Ariana and I spent the rest of the meal sitting in silence. The second we were excused in order to allow the two men to speak alone, we were up and out the door.

"I don't like him." Ariana's voice was flat.

"You'll like him even less when I tell you what occurred in the stables after you left." I proceeded to relay the events of my conversation with Moriarty, and his final warning.

She had been hugging her knees to her chest, rocking back and forth on my bed. When I finished, she leaped up and paced angrily to the window. "_C'est un faux jeton_," (1) she spat out, staring hard at her own reflection before whirling around. "_C'est une honte!_"(2)

I averted my gaze, nodding. "_Vous ne m' apprenez rien_." (3)

My sister's eyes were filled with rage. "What in the name of Bloody Mary does Father think he's doing? Can't he see past that façade?"

"I don't know, Ariana." I honestly didn't.

Ariana didn't seem to hear me, for she obliviously continued her rant. "_C'est la foire aux cancres!_" (4)

"Ariana!" I confess that I spoke rather more harshly than I meant to.

She stopped, drawing a breath as she released the chair she'd been holding in a death grip.

I exhaled in relief. "I realize that is excellent French practice, but please, keep yourself in check."

Her eyes were still blazing, but she bit her lip and nodded.

I rose from my desk chair. "All right. We need to find out more about this man. Any ideas?"

Her eyes had been fixed on the ground, but when I spoke this, her gaze met mine. "They're both downstairs, playing billiards."

I nodded. "To the Professor's room, it is."

Ariana shook her head. "Somehow, he knew I'd gone through his pockets. He'd surely realize at a glance if we'd been in his room."

I sighed. "So we'll have to look in Father's study."

This time, it was Ariana who nodded. "They obviously do know each other quite well, so Father must have something informative on him."

As we stole down the staircase barely a moment later, I whispered to Ariana, "I can tell you one other thing about this Professor."

"And what's that?"

"His surname's Irish. It means 'warrior of the sea.'"

My twin snorted softly. "So he's Poseidon on land, is what you mean."

"The Moriarty family are also ancient Suffolk nobility."

Two steps ahead of me, Ariana abruptly stopped. "_Where _in Suffolk?" she asked, as though it were a scandal that she'd never been informed of this before.

"Earl Soham," I answered.

She turned her head to look at me. "That's disturbingly close to here."

Ariana was right: it was hardly even twenty miles.

I swallowed. "I know, but we should concentrate on actually _making it _to Father's study without being discovered."

Ariana nodded. "I'm walking," she assured me, and took a step as if to prove her point. Then she turned to look at me. "Aren't you coming?"

I nodded silently, and we began walking again.

It wasn't long before we reached the first floor hallway where Father kept his study. We stopped outside the door. I paused for a moment to stare at the name painstakingly engraved into the wooden door.

_Sir Peter Ashford, Esq._

I pressed my ear to the wood. No sounds came from within.

"I told you they were in the billiards room!" hissed Ariana in my ear.

I stiffened. "Shhh, that's still just down the hall!" I cautioned.

She held up her hands in a gesture of surrender. "All right," she said as I opened the door noiselessly.

We slipped in, and as soon as Ariana had eased the door shut, I lit the gas lamps, albeit dimly.

I crossed to his desk while Ariana knelt by one of the large boxes of old papers in the corner.

As I was opening one of the top drawers, I happened to look up at the surface of his desk. My eyes immediately fell on a piece of paper filled with my father's cramped handwriting. The name _Moriarty _was at the top.

My eyes widened. "Ariana..." I called softly.

She replaced a stack of files in the box and came to stand by me as I gently picked up the paper.

_Professor of mathematics, University of St. Andrew, Scotland. Possesses the thought capabilities considered as normal for our family._

Ariana gasped and pointed at the line I had just read. "_Our _family? But could that mean..." her eyes met mine, and in her gaze I read the unfinished question.

Could that phrase actually mean what it sounded like? Were Moriarty and my father... _related?_

I took a shaky breath, but then shook off the feeling that I was on the verge of something huge. I took another breath, and continued reading.

_Family motto: Aspera me juvant (peril delights me). At the age of 21, he wrote a phenomenal treatise upon the binomial theorem. _

The page went on in this way, describing the professor's prodigious accomplishments and high standings in the academical community. Then, at the bottom of the page, and underlined several times:

_Caution advised. Knows the family secret._

My sister and I stared at each other.

"What on earth is the 'family secret?'" asked Ariana.

I cast a nervous glance at the door. "Well, I certainly know what it must have to do with."

"What's that?"

"The fact that you and I are Watsons, not Ashfords."

* * *

_A/N: Ooh, interesting turn, huh? All right, I think some people will be needing translations for those French phrases:_

_1: He's as crooked as a snake._

_2: It's a crime!_

_3: Don't I know it._

_4: It's idiot's delight! (meaning only an idiot would indulge in/take stock in this)_

_All right, next order of business: 'Aspera me juvant' really is Latin for 'peril delights me.' I once read in a Sherlockian book that Holmesian scholars believe this motto to have been on the Moriarty coat of arms. So no, I didn't just make that up. I read that and immediately thought, "that is so Moriarty." Anywho, hope you enjoyed, and please review! -SWS_


	3. Quero Non Grata

_A/N: All right, so I'm pretty proud of myself for this: I took the Latin phrase __**persona non grata**__, or 'unwelcome person,' and looked up the Latin word for inquiries or questions, __**quero**__, and came up with this chapter title, which translated is 'unwelcome questions.' Again, this chapter is thanks to my bestest Sherlockian buddy on this site, __**cjnwriter**__. This whole chapter was written last night, so it's thanks to her promptness that this is up THE DAY after I previously posted. Bombard her with virtual hugs, please. And enjoy this chapter. *evil cackle* Afterwards, I give you permission to quote EMPT and call me a "cunning, cunning fiend." -SWS_

* * *

******Chapter 3: Quero Non Grata~**

* * *

The next morning I awoke abruptly to a terrible screeching sound aimed directly into my ear.

My first instinct, even prior to opening my eyes, was to thrust one hand over my wounded ear as quickly as possible. My other hand immediately began to massage my frontal lobe, due to the ache that had developed there.

Finally my eyes flickered open, and adjusted to the sight of my sister, holding my violin within three inches of my ear. I winced, wondering how much permanent damage it would cause to be woken up by the sound of an inexperienced violinist far too close to your face.

"Ariana," I groaned, "now do you understand why I warned you never to play that instrument unless I give you my consent? Or violin lessons?"

Ariana dropped the violin onto a nearby chair in relief. "You needed woken up somehow," she informed me sensibly.

And that was when I looked behind my sister and out my bedroom window. The horizon was beginning to tinge itself a gentle shade of coral. "_A Dieu ne plaise,_(1) Ariana! _The sun is rising!_"

She didn't even afford a glance behind her. "Yes, I know it's early, but it's an urgent matter!"

As I leveled myself up in bed, I realized that my sister was already fully dressed. _Sweet merciful heavens! _"How long have you been up?" I asked incredulously.

Ariana looked at me seriously. "Honestly, Emily, do you believe I could have gone to sleep last night, with that _canard _sleeping down the hall? I'm awfully surprised you managed it."

I stared past her at the sunrise again. "What is the urgent matter?" I asked my identical twin, wishing that _identical _meant I could read her thoughts.

She started and reached beside her, picking up a slip of paper. She pressed it into my hand.

I held it up to my eyes. On seeing the familiar, angular handwriting I uttered a curse. "That's his handwriting," I stated, as if Ariana couldn't already know this.

She nodded. "Before you read the note, do you have any other observations and deductions to make?"

I studied the handwriting. I studied the small blotch of ink on the corner of the paper. I studied the paper itself. After a few seconds, another piece of the puzzle fell into place.

I looked up at my sister. "It's not a particular stationery," I concluded.

She smiled. "Exactly. Now explain how you can come to this conclusion."

That was just like Ariana, always testing. "Well, we know from last night that he was a Professor of mathematics at the University of St. Andrew." _And that was it. _Key word: _was. _"And if he was still a professor, he would be writing on the University's stationery. This is just ordinary foolscap paper."

The paper was not the thick cardstock used for stationery. There was no monogram on it, and the watermark was the familiar, well-known jester's cap that had given way to the popular name: foolscap.

Ariana smiled, her eyes glinting in the early morning sunlight. "_Precisely. _The only reason he would no longer be using the school's stationery is –"

"- That he no longer works there." This was one of those instances where Ariana's thoughts _were _plain enough for me to finish her sentences.

She nodded, but stayed silent, and I used that as an indicator to continue reading the note.

_My dear girls,_

_Going through my pockets was rather a mistake, but last night was a very close call. It's fortunate for you that I did not decide to inform Peter that you two were in his study. _

_You already know that Peter and I are related. You know there is a family secret. There must be some sort of connection between the two. I urge you to think, but if that is too much of a challenge for you, I shall be in the Northwest Passage at noon. _

_And remember, girls, that nothing is as it seems. _

"Too much of a challenge for us!" I spat out. "Ariana, do you realize how much he's underestimated us?"

She nodded, slower this time, more thoughtfully. "I know we are capable of thinking this through, Emily," she said, speaking carefully, as if simultaneously weighing our options, "but he's _offering us the truth. _We'd be fools not to take him up on that offer. We may be able to figure out part of the puzzle, but we'll need him to tell us whatever we miss. He's clearly a genius, with a brain of the first order."

I got out of bed as she spoke, mulling over her words as my feet hit the floor. She made an excellent point: we might be intelligent, but there was no competing with this man. There were many words that could be used to paint a mental picture of him, and _genius _was prominent among them.

As I stood at the window, watching the sun slowly rise over the hills, my sister's voice began speaking again. "There's still something about that man I don't trust. I can't really put my finger on it, but..."

And the moment she spoke those words was when I _did _put my finger on it.

_The newspaper from last week, that small paragraph about the Scottish museum robbery... and the pamphlet in Moriarty's pocket yesterday afternoon... Yes. Oh yes, that must be it. _

After this lightning quick thought process, I whirled around to face my sister. "Do you remember that small article in the papers last Wednesday?"

It only took her a moment to recall any 'small articles' the two of us would have discussed together, and narrow down the possibilities to the articles published in last Wednesday's paper. "The painting reported stolen from the Museum of the University of Saint Andrews?"

"_Yes. _A teacher at the University was suspected of stealing the painting, based on an anonymous tip to the Dean, and to avoid scandal, the suspect was merely asked to resign his post." Even as I began to speak, Ariana's eyes widened, and her lips parted slightly in comprehension.

"Oh, my –"

But I held up my hand to signify that I was not finished. "Yesterday, when Moriarty came to speak to me in the stables, I happened to observe a pamphlet sticking out of his pocket. It was from the Museum, dated Monday last, and advertising a formal reception at the aforementioned Museum for the unveiling of a new painting."

"_Shipwreck in Stormy Seas, _by Claude Joseph Vernet," added in Ariana.

I nodded the verification. "Of course Moriarty received an automatic invitation to the unveiling, as a Professor at the University. He realized his monumental opportunity..."

"...And took it," finished Ariana. "But, why steal the painting in the first place? And why _that _painting?"

My eyes glinted. "That's what we'll find out at noon."

* * *

At breakfast, Moriarty and my father were, once more, having a deeply involved conversation in quiet tones. Ariana and I sat next to each other, silently observing the men's body language, straining our ears to hear some part of their conversation.

Finally, I caught the last half of Moriarty's statement. "...And that was when you deserted us. Think about this, Peter, as your chance for redemption!"

My head turned to give Ariana a sideways glance. Her eyes met mine, and understanding passed between us, unspoken.

After a few more moments, the men's conversation grew into more normal tones, and I could hear Moriarty's voice clearly. "I was thinking when I woke up of taking an excursion this afternoon. That covered pathway off the northwestern side of the courtyard seems like an excellent spot for solitary reflection on nature."

Northwest Passage. Of course the note hadn't meant the trade route that Hernán Cortés had commissioned Francisco de Ulloa to recover in 1539, it had meant the passage on the northwestern side of our estate.

"Luncheon will be served at one-thirty, am I correct?" continued the _ex_-professor.

My father nodded an affirmation.

"Then I believe I shall make my way over there about noon."

A few moments later, Ariana and I had been excused, and we were heading towards the doors when Moriarty spoke again. "Peter, I believe your daughters have a rather unsafe measure of curiosity. After all, it is said that curiosity killed the cat." As he spoke, I could feel his eyes lingering on me, and I felt that prickly feeling on the back of my neck, and from the way Ariana stiffened beside me, I knew that she was feeling the very same sensation.

* * *

11:55 AM exactly found us entering the courtyard, facing the familiar scene of stone walkways and benches placed in between well-trimmed shrubs.

We walked straight across it to the northwest corner, whereupon we walked through a doorway into a covered stone passage. Carved columns supported the roof, creating open windows bordered by columns on each side and a railing at the bottom. Immediately our eyes fell upon a tall, slim figure standing about halfway down the path, staring out a window at the picturesque hills for which Suffolk is known.

Without turning around or, indeed, moving at all, he spoke. "You are two minutes and twenty-seven seconds early, girls," he said by way of greeting as we approached.

We came to stand beside him, and slowly he turned to face us. We saw that snake-like face, saw those small, dark spheres, saw the pestilential outlook of his mind. "I was certain you'd come," he said evenly, almost alluringly. "You're just too curious to let the offer drop."

"We know that you are no longer a professor at the University of St. Andrews," I said in reply.

"_And _we know _why,_" added Ariana.

Moriarty's thin eyebrows arched in surprise, rising high into the domain of his overhanging forehead. "My, you two can put two and two together even better than I thought." His tone was quite praising and complimentary.

"Yes," I said dryly, "we came up with four."

He smirked. "As well you should have. So I take it you read about the robbery in the papers last Wednesday?"

"We did," I replied. "And I observed the pamphlet in your coat pocket the other day in the stables. Factor in the fact that your note from this morning was not written on the University's stationery..."

He nodded appraisingly, almost as if enjoying this special treat. I continued my speech. "However, what I'd really like to know is who submitted that anonymous tip."

He shook his head. "I pulled every resource I had in that town, and still haven't the foggiest idea who was behind it."

Ariana moved on to the next question. "And what was the significance of that painting?"

Moriarty afforded a small smile. "You see, I have rather a fascination with fine artwork. About a year ago I acquired a Jean Baptiste Greuze – quite a desirable piece, in my opinion. When I was under suspicion for stealing that Vernet from the University museum, they thought I'd stolen the Greuze as well!" He ended the statement as if such a presumption were scandalous.

Ariana and I merely traded dubious glances. "A fascination with fine artwork is not sufficient motive, _Mr. _Moriarty," I told him. "When you attended that unveiling last week, you seized your opportunity almost as soon as you knew the particulars of the artist who put it down on canvas, almost as if you were waiting for the perfect piece of art to arrive." I did not ask the question, but he seemed to read it in my statement.

After a moment's hesitation during which he carefully picked out his words, he started to speak. "There is a man," he began, "whose success I have been following for some time. He has much more talent than any of the professionals, yet he calls himself an amateur. I believe his chosen term for it is a... private consulting detective. When the police find themselves with a case beyond their limits, they bring it to Sherlock Holmes, the remarkable reasoner, who can often bring cases to a close without ever leaving the comfort of his sitting room. Mr. Holmes is of French descent, and Claude Joseph Vernet was one of Holmes' ancestors. Claude's grandson, Emile Jean Horace Vernet, was Holmes' great-uncle, you see. I hoped this might attract his attention."

Something seemed very wrong. This man was calmly and willingly confessing to us that he had stolen a prized 18th century painting hardly a week ago. I could read the same thought on Ariana's face, but we both decided to keep gathering more information, as long as we were there. "That connection you mentioned... what was it?"

He nodded. "So you remembered that, eh?"

I didn't say so, but I didn't care at all for his attitude. Honestly, how could we forget the original reason we were going to make this meeting happen?

He continued, oblivious to the looks on our faces. "I may not be as old as you think, but your father is also not as young as he appears."

"Brothers." I spoke the word at the same moment as I thought it for the first time. "You're brothers, aren't you?"

Then the full comprehension of this fact dawned on me. _Oh my God. _This scoundrel was my uncle.

He smiled and nodded, again as if complimenting our understanding. "Very good, Miss _Watson._" He emphasized the surname, and, just as automatically as the first one, this next piece of the puzzle fit neatly into the frame.

My understanding broadened far more in the next ten seconds than it had in my entire life. But he _wasn't _my uncle. And he wasn't Ariana's uncle, either. We were Watsons. But I asked him a different question than whether or not he really was my uncle. "Why did Father change his name?"

"Can we just say that our family, despite being nobility, has a rather... questionable history. My brother wanted no more to do with us. So he legally changed his name, and began a new life with a wife who already had two young daughters."

So my mother had previously been married to someone named Watson, and when Ariana and I were infants, she remarried to this _Ashford_, while her children kept their biological father's surname.

This explained the mysteries of our childhood, but not all of the mysteries we dealt with now.

And evidently Ariana realized this as well, for she spoke again, her voice far steadier than I felt. "But why are you telling us this?"

He answered calmly and easily. "Because you did not heed my warning about what happens to curious cats. Now, when you realize that the truth comes with a price, you will know you have only yourselves to blame."

As crooked as a snake, indeed.

* * *

_A/N: If you're sitting in front of your computer/iPod/phone screen right now with your mouth wide open, you aren't the only one. I was doing the same thing last night when I was finished, although it might have been partially in pain because my back was so stiff from writing for three hours. Now your French translation of the day:_

_(1) God forbid [it]_

_Oh, and canard is from a French root as well, you'll find that the literal meaning is "duck," but it can be used as a synonym for a false person/story. Hope you enjoyed, there will be more very soon! -SWS_


	4. Loose Ends

_A/N: Here is chapter 4! I have to say, I've had far better luck with this story than I have with any of my others. So far I've managed to update every few days, and hopefully that schedule will be able to continue for a while. Now, this chapter ends rather nastily, and I am currently building a bunker to stay in when you guys start throwing objects. Enjoy (up until the end)! -SWS_

* * *

**_~Chapter 4: Loose Ends~_**

"I can't believe this."

After luncheon, a repeat of yesterday could be found in the shape and form of Ariana angrily pacing my bedroom floor. "Can't we go to Father?"

I sighed, setting down the pen and the paper upon which I'd managed to write nothing. "Father lied to us, Ariana, how can we trust him?"

She thrust her hand at me as if to say, _"And there it is." _"That's precisely the problem! He lied to protect the 'family secret,' but we never even found out what that is!"

I massaged my temple with one hand. There were still things we didn't know, but evidently we already knew more than was safe. Ex-Professor Moriarty had threatened us, that had to have been the meaning of his words. _"...you did not heed my warning... the truth comes at a price... you have only yourselves to blame."_

I closed my eyes, gathering my thoughts. Barely a moment later, my eyelids popped open again as I remembered a thought I'd previously pushed aside. "Ariana, what about that bit of their conversation we overheard at breakfast this morning?"

_"...And that was when you deserted us. Think about this, Peter, as your chance for redemption!"_

Ariana snapped her fingers. "Yes, what does 'chance of redemption' mean?"

I groaned and stood up, nearly getting knocked over as Ariana swept past me. A million thoughts ran through my head, not many of them sounding incredibly realistic. Next I attempted a logical thought process, seeing if I could follow the thread far enough to get the solution within my sight.

We knew that my father had estranged himself from the Moriarty family, even going so far as to change his name. We knew because of the relevance in the dates that Moriarty had come here, to his brother, because of his resignation at the University. What could he want with my father, and why was Sir Peter Ashford lying to us about it? He was obviously trying to hide the fact that the two of them were brothers, but why? And what motive did Moriarty have for not telling him what we knew?

It took me a moment to notice that Ariana had stopped, and now stood stock still, facing the door. "Ariana?" I asked tentatively. "What is it?"

And then I saw it. Slipped cautiously under the door was another folded up note. It couldn't have been placed more than a minute ago.

I swore under my breath, rushing over to retrieve the piece of paper, while Ariana stood statue-like, almost as if she herself had been turned to stone.

I unfolded the piece of paper to read whatever might be inside. I was not shocked to discover the thin, slanted script belonging to ex-professor James Moriarty.

_I offered redemption. A chance for him to help out a family member in need. When he hears of my counteracting offer, I am sure he will not refuse. _

I tilted the paper at an angle, and the black liquid glimmered. "The ink is still fresh," I told Ariana. "He must have been outside the door."

But Ariana hardly reacted. I wondered if she had even heard me read the note. "Emily, we already know the family secret," she said.

I stopped. _Did we? _We knew that Ariana and I were Watsons, and that our father was not actually a blood relative. We knew that Mother had been married to someone named Watson, and that he had likely died when we were infants. Then she married Father. But was there more to it?

Evidently Ariana read the question in my eyes, for she answered it. "What more could there be?"

She was entirely correct. There were only so many things that could be added to the situation, and none of them fit. Unless we had missed one of those things, then we knew all there was to know.

I met Ariana's gaze. _But what was so secret about that? _

* * *

"Are you sure you don't want my help?"

Ariana half smiled at me from her position in the doorway of the library. "Are you sure _you _don't want _my _help? It is reconnaissance, Em. You should have a sounding board."

"I will be fine, Ariana. If suspected, there is always the option to retreat and later deny being on that floor of the building. You, on the other hand, are taking the overwhelming job of a one-person research team."

"I can manage, dear sister. Now go!" She shooed me away with a wave of her arm, and once I had turned to leave, she softly shut the library door to commence her search.

I, on the other hand, was heading down the hall to where I knew the two men were engaging in "business" in Father's study. I had figured the best plan was to listen through the door, and if they showed signs of coming out or opening the door, I would turn and walk in the opposite direction, pretending to be on my way to the library.

I stopped outside the closed door, taking a breath and wiping my sweaty hands on my skirts. I took a step closer, careful not to let my skirts rustle as I moved, and leaned my ear close to the wooden barricade.

"...regret it, I am _quite_ sure!"

Following our visitor's voice, there was a heavy sigh. "Leanne would never have approved of this. She'd have thrown you out by dinnertime on the first day!"

Then there was a harsh laugh. "Leanne is _dead_!"

I assumed it was my father's fist that made contact with some object, most likely his desk. "And by heaven, I'll swear it was your doing!"

I sucked in a breath as silently as I could.

"I had nothing against your wife." The tone was almost taunting.

"You hated her!" I could sense bloody murder in my father's eyes.

"That, Peter," said Moriarty calmly, "is why we cast you off. You cannot hold your temper, like the rest of us."

"That is because you don't have hearts or feelings," snarled my father.

"Don't you mean _we, _Peter? You _are _one of us."

"Don't be a fool. I never was one of you, and you all knew it. How could I ever bear the disgrace of that surname, and knowing that anywhere I should go, I would bear that mark of such a cold-blooded family."

"Leanne would encourage you to embrace the challenge."

"If only you hadn't killed her, James!"

"I had nothing to do with your wife's death. It was consumption, wasn't it?"

"That's only what the doctor said."

Moriarty elicited a low chuckle. "So you do not trust the judgement of a worthy physician, if only it means you can pin the blame on your brother?"

"Why did you kill her?"

"She may have threatened me, Peter, but I am certainly not responsible for her death."

My father let out a high laugh, a clear mark of near-hysteria. "You were always the best actor among us, James. How can I know you aren't bluffing?"

"Because having blood on my hands, figuratively, of course, would only tarnish my reputation and ruin my chances of staying out of prison."

"Then you had her killed. You can still be held accountable."

I could only picture the smirk on Moriarty's face. "I can neither confirm nor deny it."

My father swore vehemently.

Moriarty only gave a calm reply. "I shall be back presently," he said. "I must retrieve something from my chambers."

I started and quickly turned away from the door, walking down the hall as if I hadn't just overheard my father accusing his own brother of killing my mother.

I heard the door open, and Moriarty's voice calling out, "Would you mind opening the window? It feels terribly stuffy in there."

As soon as the door was shut and I heard the latch click, a soft voice spoke from behind me. "Shall we go into the library, Miss Watson? I believe that is where we shall find your sister, is it not?"

I stiffened. "How did you know?"

He only laughed softly. "Come along now, I mustn't leave your father waiting very long."

I took a breath to steady myself – for I confess to being slightly frightened – and began walking towards the library. Moriarty's footsteps were heard behind me, slow and deliberate.

I turned the handle of the door and pushed in, entering the library, where Ariana immediately looked up from the pile of books that surrounded her. She froze, her eyes full of fear.

I stepped into the room, and vaguely heard Moriarty shutting the door behind us. He clapped his hands together. "Sit down, girls."

Unsure of what might happen, Ariana sat down in her seat again, and I took the chair directly beside her.

On the other side of the table, Moriarty stood facing us, arms crossed. He looked at the books spread out on the tabletop. "Miss Ariana, have you found anything interesting?"

"Not yet," she replied, staring at him levelly.

He turned his gaze to me. "Do you think I am lying, Miss Emily?"

"I do think it is true that you wouldn't want my mother's blood directly on your hands."

Ariana's mouth fell open in abject horror. "He _killed _her?"

I allowed my eyes to shoot venom into the man's heart. "No," I said icily, "he merely had her killed. To that, he practically confessed."

My sister began to rise from her seat, but Moriarty held up a hand, and she stayed put, limbs trembling in pure hatred.

"Leanne Watson-Ashford threatened me. I was only tying up loose ends."

I swallowed my fear and spoke. "And Father's chance for redemption? Did he take you up on your offer?"

Moriarty shrugged. "He refused."

At that moment, a voice – Mrs. Hunter's – let out a scream, and her panicked cry of a single word could be heard throughout the normally peaceful house. "Murder!"

My heart froze, and beside me I thought for a moment that Ariana had ceased breathing.

Moriarty merely smiled. "As I said: loose ends."

* * *

_A/N: *dodges sticks and stones and copies of War & Peace and The Encyclopedia Britannica* I'm sorry! It's not my fault! Emily's telling me the story at this point, and I'm just writing it down for her! Please don't hurt me! Anyhow, on a calmer note, I should have the next chapter up by Monday, if possible. Until then, please review! -SWS_


	5. In a Locked Room

_A/N: I am dreadfully sorry for leaving you hanging for a time. I was sufficiently irked when writer's block took its temporary course. A thank you to all my friends, readers, and reviewers, your support has been invaluable. Thank you to my most recent reviewer at this time: __**Lemon Zinger**__. Your reviews fueled my desire and passion for writing again. Again, thanks to_ _**cjnwriter**__, my lovely beta-reader. I wrote this whole chapter earlier today, so she deserves praise for helping me get it up so quickly. So, without further ado... the piece which satisfies the previous cliffhanger! Enjoy, one and all! -SWS_

* * *

_**~Chapter 5: In a Locked Room~**_

Not yet sure what our reaction should be, Ariana and I sat still as stone in our seats, not daring to move.

"You've killed both our parents," Ariana finally whispered.

Moriarty chuckled, his arms remaining crossed calmly. "No, I haven't," he replied. "Miss Emily can attest that Peter Ashford was alive and well when I left his study. Ever since, I have been standing here in front of you."

Ariana swore in French, her eyes betraying that she'd like to do much more than call him an... illegitimate child.

Whether the word was spoken in French or Greek or even Arabic, I wholly agreed with my sister. Being shut in the library, standing directly in front of us, gave him an undeniable alibi.

I knew that he was the one ultimately behind my father's death, but he still couldn't be held accountable in the eyes of the law. It wasn't technically fratricide.

At my sister's utterance Moriarty raised his eyebrows. "I _do _speak French, Ariana."

"You have no right to address me by my first name." The words were cold, hard, and were nothing like anything that had ever come out of my sister's mouth.

I knew Ariana well enough to know that she was hiding behind a fierce exterior, and that she wanted exactly what I did at that moment – to shrink back in our seats until we became invisible.

Moriarty's eyes glinted. "Whether it be biological or not, I am still family, and I believe this would make me your closest living relative, unless you count the two other Moriarty brothers."

"And where are these other brothers?" I found myself asking.

"One is a stationmaster in the west of England, and the other is a colonel, currently on his second term in India."

There was a moment of silence during which Moriarty turned to survey the library's shelves, and Ariana broke it with what sounded like a warning. "The town's not five miles away, I'm sure the police will be here soon, since the warning has been sounded."

Moriarty smiled, and what was almost a hint of amusement shone in his eyes behind that snakelike mask of a face. "Was that a threat or a warning, Ariana? Logically, it can be neither. You cannot accuse me of killing your father."

A candlewick went up in flames inside my head. "But we can show them our basis for the knowledge that you stole that painting."

"If I deny any involvement in the matter, Emily, whom do you think the eyes of the law would find favor with?"

Ariana, her eyes blazing like a hateful predator, repeated her phrase of French contempt. Moriarty did no more than draw a calm breath before speaking as if he had not just been cursed and condemned in French by a 13-year-old girl. "And considering the circumstances before you, I think you'll find that it is inevitably unwise to turn me in."

I think it was the first time I forgot my Christian upbringing and allowed hatred worthy of the devil himself to channel itself through my gaze.

He began walking away from us, towards the door. "Since I have nothing to do with the matter on a criminal basis, it would be perfectly normal of me to leave this room in order to find out what is going on."

I had to ask what had popped into my mind. "Why are you inquiring and the victims own daughters are not?"

"For your own safety, I have told you to stay in here, where you will not be exposed." He began to turn again towards the door, but faced us once more. "Have you ever wondered why you were never allowed far from home?"

Ariana and I glanced at each other and nodded.

"Your father was always into something, incurring the wrath of certain people who have been seeking a way to silence him for years. It looks as if some of them have finally succeeded."

And following that statement, he left us alone.

* * *

As I stood at the window of my bedroom, numbly wondering how real the last hour had been, I vaguely heard the door open and shut.

I knew that Ariana had returned when I observed the rustle of her skirts and heard her say, "The police ambulance is late in arriving. The officers are all waiting downstairs, taking the opportunity to speak to Mrs. Hunter some more."

My brain snapped back into action as I turned away from the panes of glass, foggy with the air of a cool afternoon, to face my sister. "Shall we proceed, then?"

Ariana half-heartedly offered a sort of smile. "Well, we certainly aren't going to get any information from the police."

I grasped her hand, and we made our way silently to the first floor hallway, past the ineffective attempts at a barricade, and into the study.

Before I concentrated my gaze on the scene which lay before my eyes, I turned to Ariana. "When Moriarty came out, he asked Father to open the window. I heard him lock the door after Moriarty walked out. Did you overhear how Mrs. Hunter got in to discover the body?"

"She was knocking on the door to bring them another bottle of brandy, and when there was no answer and she found that the door was locked, she took out her ring of keys and opened the door."

I turned to face the room, closing my eyes and taking a steadying breath when my gaze instantly fell on the lifeless body of Sir Peter Ashford, formerly Moriarty, lying crumpled on the floor in front of the window. It was located close to halfway between the desk and the fireplace, but slightly nearer to the desk, with one arm stretched out toward the carved furniture article of polished cherry wood, as the window was behind the desk chair. A bullet hole was in the middle of his forehead, and an expression of surprise and shock was frozen on his face.

"Did you hear if any weapon was to be found in the room?" I asked.

"A careful search turned up no sign of one," said Ariana from behind me.

"And Mrs. Hunter heard no gunshot?"

"Neither did we," Ariana reminded me, "and we were closer to the study than she was."

No weapon in the room. No sound of a gunshot. And yet there was a man dead with a bullet to the head.

I turned to the other indications of the room. An empty bottle and two half-full glasses of amber-colored brandy sat virtually undisturbed on the desk. The window was open, and a cool breeze filtered through, which had extinguished the fire. It looked as if the room was just now being occupied, if not for the dead body, which added a rather melancholy note to the whole of the scene.

"The shooter must have fired through the window." I winced slightly as I stepped over my father's body to stand at the window as he had.

I put my hands on the sill to steady myself and leaned out, peering into the early dusk. There was no way a shooter could have climbed through the window without scaling the brick outfacing of the house like a tree frog. He also could not have gotten back down without landing in the full flowerbeds on the ground. No one would be so unthinking – the roses were planted underneath the window, and in full bloom.

"So we have, for sure, concluded that it was murder?" asked Ariana.

I turned my head to meet her gaze. "Of course we have."

Once back to the window, I mentally calculated the distance between the window and the nearest tall tree. About 100 yards. The next nearest possibility for a – dare I say it – sniper attack was the greenhouse roof. 150 yards.

"You don't listen well, do you, Emily?" came a voice from the doorway, _not _my sister's.

I went rigid, and was almost afraid to turn around. When I did, the frighteningly familiar face of ex-Professor James Moriarty was visible in the doorway.

Ariana had turned to face him as well, seemingly as frozen as a block of ice.

"If you two will allow me to escort you back to your bedchamber and if you remain there until dinner, this shall stay between the three of us."

Silently, we walked with him up the stairs, ducking behind a large tapestry for a moment when we heard the sounds of officers returning, with the local coroner in tow.

"It's a baffling affair," one officer said. "Should we send for Scotland Yard? I've heard they have a private consultant whose success is unrivaled."

Next I heard an older, more experienced voice – a new one, so most likely the coroner's. "If we were going to send for the Mets, it should have been done earlier, lad. That time has passed."

Their voices grew fainter, and the "lad" gave an indiscernible reply. We moved out onto the staircase and continued on.

A few moments later, Moriarty let us into my bedroom and shut the door.

I eyed my violin in the corner, wanting nothing more than to play through my entire music book for the purpose of calming my not inconsiderably jangled nerves.

But I walked to the window, for once not seeing beauty when I looked out upon the hills. I saw instead many places for assassins to hide. I saw darkness rather than light.

It was then that the reality hit me, and I turned around, sinking to the floor, slumped against the wall. "Father's dead for knowing far less than we do," I whispered.

I could see it in Ariana's eyes that she was thinking the same thing I was.

_And that means we're next. _

* * *

_A/N: Yes, that "private consultant" refers to Holmes. Yes, it means neither he nor Scotland Yard will be called to Thorndon Hall in pursuit of the murderer. Yes, the description was reminiscent of EMPT. Was the killer Moran, with the air gun? I shall leave you, the reader to speculate. And yes, Emily and Ariana sneaked into the crime scene. I would have done precisely the same. Until next time... please review! -SWS_


	6. Escape Route

_A/N: Hey, you guys! Sorry if the absence seemed a bit extended, I've had a lot going on and not a lot of attention from my Muse. I finally got this chapter done today and sent it along to my beta-reader, who, wonder of all wonders, found no mistakes to be corrected. So, it's up fairly quickly. Hope you all enjoy! *cackles* -SWS_

* * *

**_~Chapter 6: Escape Route~_**

* * *

I picked up my violin, holding up the bow to meet the instrument's strings. I squeezed my eyes shut, setting the ornately carved, hollowed-out piece of wood back on the chair on which it had sat, for my hands were shaking far too badly. I sank down on the side of my bed and held up a hand to massage my pulsing temple, gasping for breath as my throat closed tight and allowing a single tear to escape from beneath my eyelid.

I realized how much I was letting myself slip, and I took a deep, steadying breath. One tear. That was already more than I could afford, and that was all I would cry for my father. There was nothing to mourn for. I'd never really known him, nor had any real kinship to him.

And he'd never been a huge part of our life. He restricted our movements, keeping us close to home. And he never did that himself – he left such things to the servants. He himself was always secluded, keeping to a tight schedule of breakfast, his office, luncheon, his office, dinner, his office, and bed.

By missing him I would only be missing the sight of him at meals. Nothing more.

I sighed and stood up. Ariana had been gone far too long. It had been nearly two hours since she had confirmed that Moriarty was downstairs, and that it was safe for her to go into the library. We needed answers, and books were where she suggested we turn. Father had always kept large volumes of ancestral records, where much information of our family history was written.

But it should not have taken this long. Why hadn't she at least returned with the books?

I quickly made my way to the door, opening it a crack to make sure the hallway was empty before slipping out and easing the door shut silently.

The path to the library was completely empty, and I was undisturbed as I crept silently toward the huge double doors. It seemed far too quiet to fit the circumstances, and the thought only served to make me more paranoid. I wondered if they could hear my heart pounding from downstairs.

I pushed open one of the doors. It creaked rather more loudly than I'd anticipated. I winced as fear made my heart leap into my throat, and, hands shaking, I let the heavy door shut as slowly as it could move. "Ariana?" I tried calling out, but only a whisper made it past my parted lips.

Merciful heavens, it was _exceedingly _cold in here, compared to the rest of the house.

There was silence. I paused for a moment, and then I heard the whistle of a summer breeze. _In here? _

"Ariana?" I called again. My voice sounded weak and frightened, echoing all alone in the vast room as silence screamed back at me.

I noticed nothing unusual, but also no signs of human presence, so I took a few hesitant steps toward the very back of the room, where I assumed my sister had set up a table filled with ancestral books to comb through. "Ariana?" I kept calling out in a soft, trembling voice, hoping for any answer at all.

As I passed through the tall and wide bookshelves, I looked left and right and left again, over my shoulder, and around corners. Nothing seemed out of place. There wasn't a single particle of dust or a book removed from the shelves. When we were younger, the room would echo with the innocent laughs of two little girls as we read through tales of elves and trolls and dragons, ballads of knights and princesses, and stories of magic fairies and nymphs. We used to play hide-and-seek with Mother when she was alive, and squeal in mock fear when she found us. Now the room was eerily silent, almost mocking the memories.

When I reached the back of the room, I stopped to scour the egg-shaped sitting area. There was no sign of my sister, or that anyone had been here, except that one of the windows was wide open, and the curtains fluttered, dancing almost joyfully in the breeze.

I stepped closer to look around. Then I saw something stuck to a plush armchair – the same one in which I'd been reading _Treasure Island _– could that only have been a few days ago?

I walked over to see what it was.

Stuck to the chair with a single hatpin was a small piece of paper, torn hurriedly, on which was scribbled these words:

_"Emily,_

_I know more than is safe. It is not just him – he heads a criminal organization. He is coming for me. He will come for you too. Our half-brother, Dr. John Watson, lives at 221B Baker St. in London. You must flee there the moment you read this. Stop for nothing or no one. I hope to see you soon. Do not grieve if that is not to be._

_Much love from your sister,_

_Ariana"_

_He will come for you too._ That must mean Moriarty.

_He is coming for me. _Oh, no. Please, no. The window.

I ran to the window, leaving the note and the hatpin discarded on the chair in front of which I had knelt to read my twin's cramped script.

Scuffs of shoe polish were visible right beneath the window, as if there had been some sort of struggle. A small, miniscule pooling of blood was on the window ledge, in the middle of which lay another of Ariana's hatpins. Tiny spots of spattered blood were stained on the curtains. Had she used her pins in defense, or had they been taken and used against her? Was she injured? Or even still alive?

"My sister," I murmured, feeling weak and fragile, as if I might crumple to the ground at any moment.

One thing was for certain: my sister was gone. I was weak, alone, and vulnerable. An easy target. It was only common sense that I would be eliminated next. I had no choice but to flee. Tonight.

I picked up the note Ariana had left as a visible reminder of my sister, even though I already knew the whole thing by heart. Running to the front of the room, I exited quietly, letting the door slip shut behind me as I scouted the hallway. Still empty. As I took off quickly but silently up the stairs, all was silent. I heard not a sound, even from downstairs.

Could it really be? I knew Ariana had enough common sense, but had no one actually heard her scream?

* * *

From beneath my bed, I pulled a cloth knapsack, much like something a reporter would carry. Into it I had room to fold carefully two extra dresses, one plain cotton, and one having silk sleeves, the note, three small pictures, two of me and Ariana together, one of them taken but a couple of months ago, and one of us with our mother, one brass magnifying glass which Mother had given us to study wildlife, and fifty pounds in notes and coins. I had already slipped on my best walking shoes, and extra petticoats under the dress I was wearing, and I wore a dark blue velvet cloak with a pin of Ariana's, and my sentimental golden locket around my neck. I slipped the strap of the knapsack over my shoulder, blew out the single candle I had lit, extinguishing the room into darkness, and left as silently as I could.

Instead of taking the main stairs, I hurried to the opposite end of the hallway, where I turned onto the servant's staircase, which led straight into the kitchen. From the polished and worn counter I took a loaf of bread, slipping it on top of the other implements in my bag and quietly exiting through the back door.

The night was cool, but humid, and crickets chirped in a calming chorus as I hurried to the stables.

It was hastily and with trembled hands that I saddled Felicity, my chestnut mare, and as I attached the bridle she looked at me as if to wonder what could be wrong, that I would urgently need to go for a ride during the night.

I led her out of her stall, and she appeared puzzled to find that Ariana wasn't present, readying her own mare, Liberty.

Felicity started prancing, feeling that something was off, and I stroked her side, quietly murmuring, "It's all right, girl. We need to go into town, understand? There's nothing to worry about." Gradually she calmed down enough for me to lead her outside and jump on, kicking her into a steady run.

I knew the gates would be shut, especially tonight, so I turned Felicity gently towards the woods, and she followed my instructions willfully. We penetrated the border and rode swiftly into the forest, tree branches and thorny bushes clawing at us and snagging my clothing, but as I led my mount toward the old path, the obstacles gradually disappeared, and Felicity's gait evened out.

After a stretch of time the trees began to thin out, and I saw the town of Thorndon appearing in the form of some shadowy buildings ahead of me.

But I could not stay in town for the night. By morning, someone at the Manor would find that I was missing and send word into town. The inn and hotel were undoubtedly closed, and I'd have to catch the first train to London in the morning. I knew from Father's schedule that he had always kept handy that the 7:15 train tomorrow – the first departure of the day – was headed to the great metropolis.

Near the edge of the forest, several trees created a shelter, and on the ground was a soft bed of moss.

I stopped, realizing that I had nothing with which to tie up Felicity. "Go home, girl," I told her, knowing as I set her off in the direction of the estate that she could find her way.

I removed the knapsack from my shoulder and set it on the ground. I would just spend the night here, I decided, and plopped down upon the ground, folding my legs under my dress comfortably.

Even as active as my brain was from recent events, I could not stay up all night, and though at some point I began to shed unbidden tears for my beloved sister, eventually I succumbed to sleep underneath the leafy canopy.

* * *

_A/N: Yes, our poor Emily is all on her own. Her father has been killed and her twin sister has been kidnapped. She is off to London to seek help and lodging with a distant relative she has never met. Wait. Could that be OUR Dr. John Watson? Who else? But Emily does not know whom he lodges with, does she? Boy, is she in for a surprise! I hope to have the next installment up by sometime this week, so stay tuned, folks! And please review! -SWS  
_


	7. Ad Terra Incognita

_A/N: I really intended for this to be up sooner. Truly. Things have gotten in the way lately and I seriously didn't have all that much motivation to write. Not to mention that this chapter required a lot of historical research into the speed of trains and the average time of sunrise. This chapter, at the end, will have Latin translations instead of French, since I was in a Latin kind of mood. The title, by the way, means 'Towards Unknown Territory.' Many thanks to my beta-reader and Boswell, __**cjnwriter**__, who found time to proofread this while she was at school. With other people. I can't even begin to fathom concentrating in the middle of other people. Give her a round of applause, and enjoy this chapter! -SWS_

* * *

_**~Chapter 7: Ad Terra Incognita~**_

* * *

A shrill whistle hit a sour note close to my head. At first I thought Ariana was attempting once again to wake me by playing my violin. "Put it down, _soror_," (1) I muttered, reaching sluggishly for the blankets to pull over my head.

I found cloth, but it was strangely wet, and didn't feel at all quilted. But, God have mercy, I was far too tired to worry about a bit of water on my bed.

The same shrill note sounded again, and this time it was answered by a chorus of other noises of varying pitch.

Groaning, I forced my eyelids open. "Ariana, you –" I stopped. I was not in my bed. I was lying on top of a painfully hard tree stump on the southeast outer edge of the forest, in sight of the town. The sky was dimly lit, and the very dingy gray of early morning. Mist swirled around in many abstract shapes, touching the tips of the dewy grass, and a chorus of birds was singing gaily above my head.

Then, at the speed of the current of Hudson's Creek after a torrential downpour, the events of last night came flooding back, bringing a couple of stinging tears to my eyes.

I shakily pushed myself up to a sitting position, wiping my hands on my magnificently grass-stained skirt.

Then I realized that I probably looked like I'd been through hell. Not that that would have been at all inaccurate.

I leaned my head back, resting it on the solid tree trunk behind me. I stared up into the leafy canopy, watching as the green shapes rustled in the light breeze, chill drops of dew shaking themselves free and falling on my head.

I closed my eyes, a blissful memory from the past returning unbidden to the front of my mind.

_Ariana poked her head down out of the tree, chestnut-brown locks falling into her face, and giggled. "Em, come on!" _

_The identical twin of the girl in the tree sat up against a log, arranging small acorns in neat rows. And for the multiplication problem of five times four, she would need five rows of four acorns each. She was too wrapped up in her arithmetic to answer. _

_Sighing, Ariana agilely dropped out of the tree, and stood with her hands on her hips. "Em!"_

_Emily looked dubiously over her shoulder at her exasperated sister. "I don't think it's safe, Ariana."_

_Ariana untangled a small twig from her hair and sighed once more. "Em, you can't count on staying safe your whole life! We'll grow up and get married and move away from Father. And besides," she shrugged, "it's fun. We won't get hurt as long as we don't fall, and we won't get into any trouble as long as we don't rip our skirts."_

_Emily stared into her sisters' eyes, which pleaded for an adventurous companion, and stood up. "All right," she consented, and followed Ariana to the tree, where she jumped to grab a hold and pulled herself up onto the lowest branch, and continued to climb this way. _

_In a higher branch, Emily giddily looked down at the world below and sighed contentedly. It was actually a pleasurable experience for once to do what one wanted – and the risk was worth it. _

I opened my eyes again. My sister had been the one who convinced me to change my way of thinking that day when we were seven years old. I hadn't regretted it ever since. And now Ariana was gone. I owed it to her to do everything in my power – no matter how risky – to ensure her safety, and that monster's downfall.

I undid the strap holding my bag closed, noticing the loaf of bread on top and realizing for the first time how hungry I was.

I broke off a small piece of the bread and began to eat. My mouth was dry, and I sorely wished I had some water – or, at least, tea – with which to wash down the bread, but I did not, so I gingerly moistened my lips with my tongue and took another bite, trying not to appear too voracious, even though my only company were the birds and chipmunks.

Having finished approximately half of the loaf, I returned it to my bag and fastened the strap once more, standing up and beginning to make my way into town.

Not many people were yet awake – which wasn't surprising, as the sun had not yet risen. A few young boys ran down the sidewalks, some with sticks, some with handfuls of stones. A man in a brown business suit sat on a bench by the train station reading a newspaper. As I stepped closer to him I could plainly see the headline. _Death of Sir Ashford Strikes Terror in Many, _I read, feeling my throat constrict for a moment. I didn't recognize the man, and so prayed he wouldn't recognize _me _as the daughter of the murdered man. "Excuse me, sir," I said as politely as I could, "do you have the time?"

His eyes tore themselves reluctantly from the newspaper and fixed upon me. His eyebrows raised as he looked me up and down. Finally he pulled a golden pocket watch from inside his coat and glanced at it. "It's 6:43, miss," he said.

"Thank you," I replied with a nod, and began to walk briskly away. The hem of my dress caught my eye as I stepped over a small gap in the sidewalk. It was snagged and torn and wet and smeared with dirt. It occurred to me that I most likely looked the same all over. No wonder the man had looked at me so, he must have thought I'd wandered out of the forest after sleeping under a spell for twenty years, like Rip Van Winkle from the tale by Washington Irving.

_Deo volente, (2) _I could find somewhere to clean up slightly. However, if it was nearly seven, I had no time. I must hasten to purchase my ticket for the 7:15 train and make sure that Moriarty could not catch up with me – _of course. _It was too easy, and yet, with luck, it would work.

Naturally Moriarty would notice this morning that I was missing. Of course he would assume that I'd gone into town and that I would have bought a ticket to London on the closest train – where else would I go? Moriarty would come into town and ask if anyone had seen me, and the ticket-seller would tell him I'd bought a ticket on the 7:15 passenger express into London. The Professor was a well-to-do man with much influential power, and he would no doubt engage a special – a private passenger train for the highest of society. Thus he would reach London well before I, and be able to head me off. _Oh, if I could only do it! _I might buy a ticket for that train, but I did not have to get on it. If only I could find some way to procure a ticket for the _next _express train to London without attracting attention.

But the first step was, of course, to purchase the decoy ticket.

I pushed as much hair as I could behind my ears – naturally my hairpins had all fallen out – and approached the ticket-seller's booth.

"Miss Emily!" he exclaimed in surprise, looking up as I came nearer. His eyes – just like those of the man in the suit – widened, taking in my appearance. "Wh-what happened to you?" he stuttered, gesturing at me.

"I had a rough night," I confessed. _Not a lie. _"And walked into town this morning," I added. _Also not a lie. _

He nodded, no doubt in response to the 'rough night' bit. "And no wonder, with your father – I was sorry to hear about that, by the way." His expression had suddenly turned from shock to sympathy.

"Thank you for the condolences," I replied earnestly. "I do, however, require a ticket for the 7:15 train."

The man's eyebrows shot skyward. "London?" he said rather loudly. Then, looking uncomfortable, he lowered his voice. "Why on earth do you need to go to London?" he asked.

"To see a relative," I told him. _Not a lie. _

"Is Ariana not going?"

"No, I'm afraid she's needed at home." _That _was a lie, and I felt strangely un-guilty for telling it. And, of course, the lack of guilt made me feel quite guilty indeed.

His eyes betrayed that he wasn't satisfied with this amount of information, but he evidently knew I wasn't going to say any more, for he silently handed me a ticket in exchange for some coins and wished me good luck and Godspeed on my journey.

Suddenly I heard a couple of the boys' voices calling out a greeting to someone entering the town. _Oh, no. Inconceivable. _He was early.

But as I listened, it was indeed him. I heard his voice, asking the boys if they'd seen me.

I ducked into a side alley and crouched behind a box that smelt strongly of pigs, breathing hard. As if on cue, I heard a blessing in the form of the final bell sounding from the platform. Escalating quickly in speed, the train pulled out of the station, leaving Thorndon behind it.

I faintly heard Moriarty begin a to-the-point interrogation of the ticket-seller, who immediately revealed that I'd bought a ticket on the 7:15 train to London, which had, unfortunately, just left.

Moriarty cursed angrily and began negotiating the price to engage a special.

I saw a young boy, whose name I believed was Steven, walk in front of my hiding spot and saw my chance. Pulling him behind the crate to kneel beside me, I indicated for him not to speak loudly.

"What 'appened to yew?" he whispered.

"It's too complicated and not necessary to explain," I told him. Handing him enough coins to pay for another train ticket, I said, "Take these and by me a ticket on the next passenger express to London, all right? Bring it back to me and I can promise you an extra sovereign."

The child's face brightened at the prospect of an entire sovereign of his very own, and he eagerly nodded and skipped off to fulfill the task he'd been given.

Not long after, but before the boy returned, I heard the sound of another train leaving the station at an even higher speed. I had every part of my instincts telling me this was Moriarty's special.

Even in the urgency of my situation, I felt my heart leap. It had worked. All I had left to do was make it onto the next train without the ticket-seller noticing. Moriarty had fallen for the decoy. He was following the red herring all the way to London, and it would be hours before he realized the truth.

Just then Steven returned, breaking me out of my thoughts. He handed over my ticket, and I in turn handed him the promised sovereign, and he ran off to spend his new treasure.

I glanced at the ticket. Departure 8:30 AM 14th August, 1887. Passenger express to Paddington Station. I did not have a clue where Paddington Station was located, nor did I have any idea how close it was to my final destination – Baker St.

Eight-thirty. If I was correct, I had just over an hour before my train left. Fortunately, this gave me time to freshen up. As I headed towards the inn on the main road, I thanked the Almighty Lord that I'd thought to bring extra clothing.

* * *

One hour later, I stood on the platform of Thorndon train station, wearing the silk and lace lined gown I had carefully folded inside my satchel, with my hair pinned up under a wide-brimmed hat graciously given to me by the proprietor's wife. I was by no means _clean_, for there had not been nearly enough time for that, but I was significantly neater in appearance, and one might not have even linked me to the muddy, torn, bedraggled girl who had walked wearily into town earlier that morning.

The last whistle sounded sharply. The conductor gave the final warning to board. Steam poured thickly into the air, dispensing rapidly as it fueled my route to London.

By now Moriarty would have realized that I was nowhere to be found in the Great Metropolis. Not long ago he would have left to come back here. And by the time he actually arrived I would be a mere 25 miles from London.

As all this passed through my head, I stepped forward and climbed aboard the train. It wasn't very crowded; there were only a scant few men in suits, two of them appeared to be accompanied by women, in all probability their wives.

My primary point being that it wasn't at all hard to find a compartment for myself, and as I locked the door and dropped my bag onto the seat, the train began to pull away from the platform, gathering speed with every second. I sat down gingerly by the window and watched everything I'd ever known slip away. I forced myself to swallow the fear I felt as I realized I had no idea what lay ahead.

* * *

_A/N: Thanks to my mom's boyfriend, who has an account on here as **dearbluey**, I figured out how fast a passenger express train would travel and how long it would take for it to travel a distance of sixty-two point something miles into London, and he also gave me the decoy ticket idea. _

_Latin Translations:_

_(1): sister_

_(2): God willing_

_And there you have it! There's a couple little kinks I need to sort out before writing the next chapter, but it promises to be quite interesting. Hope you enjoyed! If so, leave a review! -SWS  
_


	8. When In London

_A/N: Well, here it is! I had started it last week, but due to a troublesome power outage I had to rewrite what I already had. It was ugly. The first few paragraphs were originally way longer and more descriptive, but here it is, full length and with some very...interesting developments. Enjoy! -SWS_

* * *

**_~Chapter 8: When In London~_**

* * *

At approximately 10:30 AM on the 14th of August, The Year of Our Lord 1887, my train pulled to a stop in Paddington Station. London at last. My entire life I had dreamed of visiting our nation's great capital, full of well-dressed theatregoers – men in tailored suits with cutaway trim, and ladies bedecked in silk and jewels. From the sights and smells and sounds that greeted me, I couldn't have been more wrong.

Before I even left my compartment, all my senses were assailed by the very essence of what London truly was. I saw from my window that the platform was utterly packed, despite the fact that the day's traveling prime was hours away. There were people of all ages, from small, scrawny children to men and women both shabby and genteel. I heard the incessant chatter of hundreds of people, including young boys selling newspapers, who were weaving through the crowd, calling the stories of the day, women calling for their children in proper and Cockney accents alike, screaming infants and shouting men who were obviously in the midst of a verbal donnybrook some distance away. I smelled what was undoubtedly oil, dirt, foul smoke, and the smell of too many bodies packed all together.

The smell was thankfully the last of these to register in my mind. I was naturally accustomed to the dirt, having spent so much time in the forest, and also the smoke, having additionally spent time in the town, where the trains dispensed their used coal which was burned for fuel in the form of thick, black, rancid smelling smoke.

At first I brought up a hand to cover the lower area of my face. However, realizing I couldn't very well make my way through the city like this, I took a cleansing breath and lowered it.

I swung the strap of my bag over my shoulder and departed the train, taking a sweeping look at the many people crowding the platform as I descended the steps. As soon as I stepped onto the platform itself, I felt the heavy throng immediately absorb me. I was bumped and jostled, and my forehead was soon damp from the heat of the crowd. Finally I reached the entrance, and headed as quickly as I could towards the street. I saw two men leaning up against a low brick wall, one of them tall, clean-shaven, and dressed as one of the middle class – not shabby, nor especially well-to-do – and the other shorter and scruffier in all respects, and who had the distinctive look of a sailor. Both of them were smoking inexpensive cigarettes. I overheard the word "Thorndon" in their conversation, and could not help stopping to listen.

"...Haven't found out who did it," said the tall man.

"Hmph. Never will, I reckon," said the short man.

"They say Sir Ashford's business acquaintance was visiting the house at the time. Do you suppose he had anything to do with it?"

"Na. They say he's a professor, as respectable as they come."

Respectable. The word hit me like a knife driven deep into my heart. I tasted bile, sour in the back of my mouth, and forced myself to swallow it. As if I had not been interested in their conversation at all, I lifted my head, stood straight and stiff as a sophisticated lady, and walked in the direction of a cabstand I noticed standing about 50 yards away.

I approached one of the cabbies loitering around, a portly man of average height, and told him I needed a ride.

"You on yer own, miss?" he asked in a low, gravelly drawl.

"I am," I replied cautiously. God forbid, what if he was out to kidnap a vulnerable child and elicit her virtue out of her?

Instead he continued to lean against the spindly fence, chewing his slimy tobacco lazily. "Where to?" he asked.

"221B, Baker St.," I said clearly and directly, reciting the address from the note I had done hardly anything but stare at for most of the two hour train ride.

"That'll be 3 shillings," said the cabby dully, standing up straight.

I carefully counted out 3 silver shillings, each to the value of 12 pence from the small pouch inside my satchel and dropped them into the man's callused hand. He pocketed the coins casually and held open the door of the cab. I stepped inside to find a single bench, made to seat a maximum of two, a sliding window with a clear view of the front, and a seat on the back for the driver – and onto this he promptly climbed. I had never been to London, but I knew enough to know that this was a hansom cab.

As the cab started moving, I tried to pay attention to the streets we passed, where we turned, and how fast we were going. The wheels rolling over cobblestone made the cab rock back and forth unsteadily, and we couldn't go overly fast, due to other cabs and people crowding the streets. A group of children dodged the various vehicles, chasing each other merrily – not heeding the large carriages and horses that could easily crush them without stopping.

Due to the fact that I was lost in my observations, it barely seemed the 15 minutes that it took for us to reach Baker St. Before I had time to prepare myself for it, the cab was pulling to a halt. I stepped out cautiously, careful to avoid the muck on the street. The cab rattled off, the sound dissolving into the chaos of London, and I was left standing on the sidewalk alone.

I stared at the nondescript building of worn and faded brick in front of me. It appeared to be part of a series of row-houses, and a brass number affixed beside the door read _221B_.

It seemed just like any other common building in London from the glimpses I'd seen. Was it really possibly that my half-brother lived _here_? Growing up, I'd always thought if I had a relative living in London, they would own a fashionable, elaborate manor by the river. But I had recently learned that London was not what I'd envisioned. Now I knew not what I should expect. Perhaps this was as fancy as London got.

Now that I had finally reached my destination, fears and doubts began to surface once again in my mind. What if no one would help me? What if I had the wrong address, or what if Ariana's information was wrong and I didn't have a half-brother at all? Ignoring my unease, and not knowing what else to do, I stepped forward and rang the bell at once.

Not a moment later the door was answered by a woman who looked to be in her mid-30's and wore a plain, flowered frock with a flour-covered apron overtop. She looked me up and down kindly, her eyes soft and gentle. "May I help you?" she asked, a faint trace of a Scottish lilt in her voice.

I thought back to the note. "Yes, I – I'm looking for Dr. Watson," I said, hoping against hope that my voice wasn't as timid and squeaky as it sounded.

"Of course, dear." She opened the door wider and allowed me to step inside. I found myself standing in a simple yet elegant foyer. An oriental carpet covered the wooden floorboards, and vases of flowers adorned the banister of the stairs. A coat rack stood near the door, along with an umbrella stand. I could not help noticing that among the umbrellas and walking sticks were an army officer's ceremonial sword and a harpoon.

My brow furrowed. What an eccentric collection of belongings!

"Do you have a card, dear?" asked the woman in a hospitable voice, pausing at the foot of the stairs.

"Er – no," I said, feeling foolish. Of course a lady of my standing should always carry visiting cards.

"That's all right," she assured me, gesturing for me to follow her up the stairs.

Wanting to remember everything about this experience, I sternly commanded myself to notice all the details I could. As we ascended the stairs, I filed away in my memory that there were 17.

At a landing, the woman stopped and knocked lightly on a door.

"Yes, come in!" called an aristocratic voice from within.

The kind woman, whose eyes reminded me hauntingly of my mother's, turned the knob and appeared in the doorway. "There is a young lady here for Dr. Watson," my usher reported. Then she pushed me forward, and I am fearful to hazard the guess that my mouth dropped open in shock at what I saw.

The room was lined with red patterned wallpaper. On one wall, there was a series of small round holes – almost like bullets – that formed the letters _VR. _A desk stood to the left of the door, cluttered with stacks of files and paperweights and knickknacks in general. On the opposite side of the room there were bookshelves crammed with what appeared to be scientific essays, encyclopedias, and various other literary accomplishments. In the far right corner there was a stained old table covered with many different tubes and phials and containers of varying shades of liquid and powder. The sitting area was comprised of a sofa and two armchairs, angled to face the stone fireplace directly across the room. Closer to the fireplace there was a wicker chair with two cushions for comfort. Objects on the mantelpiece included a single red rose, a jackknife skewering a pile of papers to the surface on which they lay, a single scuffed and worn Persian slipper, and what appeared to be a human skull.

But most shocking of all was that there were two men in the room – and they both appeared perfectly at home.

One was a tall, thin, pale-skinned man with long, spidery fingers and dark brown hair who was standing near the window by the stained table, and the other was a slightly shorter, portly man sporting a mustache. He had brown hair as well, though it was of a lighter shade, more chestnut. He also had deep, hazel-brown eyes that betrayed compassion. I knew that if I looked into a mirror, I would find the very same brown orbs staring back at me. There was no doubt that this was the man for whom I had come.

"I don't remember you making an appointment today, Watson," said the tall man, sounding quite interested.

"Neither do I, Holmes," said my brother.

_Holmes...why did that name sound so familiar? _

"Are – are you Dr. Watson?" I asked, nodding in the direction of the man with the mustache. Only then did I realize that the door had been shut behind me, and I knew that there was no turning back.

"I am," he said, "and this is my dear friend and colleague, Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

The name echoed in my head. _Sherlock Holmes. _And suddenly I knew where I had heard the name before. I was transported back to a stone walkway, beside my twin sister, staring at the face of the man I now knew had killed my mother. _What had he said?_

_"There is a man whose success I have been following for some time. He has much more talent than any of the professionals, yet he calls himself an amateur...When the police find themselves with a case beyond their limits, they bring it to Sherlock Holmes, the remarkable reasoner, who can often bring cases to a close without ever leaving the comfort of his sitting room."_

My half-brother lodged with the man whose attention was sought by Professor Moriarty.

"And you are?" asked my brother politely.

"Emily," I answered shakily. "Miss Emily Watson."

"A Watson." Sherlock Holmes' eyebrows were raised. "What a remarkable coincidence, eh, Doctor?"

"Quite so. Miss Watson, may I inquire what I can help you with?"

So it really wasn't obvious to him.

"You mean that you didn't know?" I asked without thinking, very much surprised.

"Know what?" he replied, brow furrowed in confusion.

"Why, that I'm your half-sister!"

* * *

_A/N: Well isn't this getting interesting! I told you before Emily meeting Holmes would be a surprise for her! ^^ But how will Emily engage Holmes' help? You'll see soon enough. And how will she end up helping with a case? I mean, she has to, right? Don't worry, I have some good ideas. It will require a great deal of research, though. Again, all thanks goes to **cjnwriter** for this being actually edited to some extent. I am so fortunate to have her. Stay tuned for the next chapter, I hope to have it done within a couple more days, time permitting. Please review! -SWS  
_


	9. Status Quo

_A/N:_ _Whew, I actually got it up in less than a week! Exactly what I was aiming for. I would have had it up the moment I returned from my dad's house last night, but I lacked the motivation to sit down and follow through with __**cjnwriter's **__proofreading comments. Chocolate always helps with the enticement, and my reward is I get to work on chapter 10 a bit. It'll be a stealth chapter (you'll see) and I'm definitely in a stealth mood after watching Skyfall last night. Speaking of which, James Bond isn't the stealthiest of spies, is he? He goes around telling people his real name and he kills people just because he has a double-oh-status, AND he gets captured way too much. He's just so famous it gets to his head. Anyhow...enjoy! -SWS_

* * *

**_~Chapter 9: Status Quo~_**

* * *

"You're my _what_?"

It was almost a full minute before he replied, looking very much like he was choking on a particularly large oyster.

"For the sake of practicality I will assume that you heard me," I said.

I noticed that Holmes' mouth was agape, and it was to him that I turned. "I was hoping," I said, "that you could help me."

Dr. Watson and Sherlock Holmes both snapped their mouths closed, and assumed the concerned air of helping a damsel in distress.

"Pray tell us, Miss Watson, what is wrong?" asked Holmes.

Drawing a breath, I found that I was gaining confidence in speaking, my fears dissipating by the minute. "Perhaps you have read in the newspapers of the murder of Sir Peter Ashford," I said.

Both men's faces immediately showed recognition. After exchanging a glance, they nodded slowly.

I paused for a moment before deciding to put it the simplest way possible. "He was my stepfather."

The Doctor drew a sharp breath. "I am terribly sorry for your loss, Miss Watson –"

"Emily," I broke in, then added, in a prompting voice, "We _are _family."

He nodded at me. "Yes, _Emily_, but doesn't that mean that your father was..."

"The same as yours? Yes, it does. After your mother died, he remarried to my mother, Leanne. Together they had two children, twins, me and –"

"Ariana," Holmes finished for me. He had no doubt already guessed from the information in the newspapers.

I affirmed it, then settled my gaze back on my brother. "When our father died, my mother remarried to my stepfather. My sister and I were barely a year old."

Dr. Watson murmured his sympathy, but Holmes looked impatient. "Would you mind terribly, Miss Watson, if we returned to the main reason you have come here?"

I nodded. "But of course. Two days ago my stepfather was visited by a man he said was his 'business acquaintance.' Ariana and I found it obvious that this was a lie. The man was invited by my father to stay at the house for a few days. Through the course of some investigating, my sister and I discovered that the man was actually my stepfather's brother. His motives for visiting and my father's motives for lying about it are unclear," oh, I cursed how easy the lie was coming now!, "but yesterday afternoon I overheard them speaking in my father's study, where our guest was accused of having my mother killed – and our guest did nothing to deny it. I few moments later I was caught, and he was confronting my sister and I in the library when the call of murder rang out. And you gentlemen know the rest of the facts from there concerning Peter Ashford's death."

My brother appeared ready to soothe me in the event that I broke down into tears, but Holmes merely gazed at me sharply through keen eyes of steel. "You are traveling alone," he said, cocking his head as if demanding to know why.

"Yes, and you have obviously deduced that from the fact that I have my bag with me. If I were with a companion, they would either be here with me, or else I would not have my bag. If I were only dropped off here, then my companion would be headed to our hotel, where they would no doubt have taken my baggage to be deposited in my room. Thus I am here alone and with no place to stay."

Both men appeared astonished that I caught on to Holmes' parlor tricks so easily. However, Holmes quickly recovered. "Yes, but I should much like to know _why_ you are alone, and what could have caused your trip so be so abrupt. Where is your sister?"

Here my voice broke, and I quickly blinked back tears as I said, "My sister is gone."

The two men appeared confused. Holmes leapt to his feet and began to pace with all the energy of a foxhound on the trail. "Gone?" he asked sharply. "What do you mean by 'gone?'"

"She found out too much," I forced myself to say. "She was kidnapped late last night. She left me a note telling me to flee from the house quickly, and gave me this address to come to."

"Do you have the note?" Holmes asked.

"No," I lied, "but I can quote it to you."

_Why was I lying? _I questioned. Did I really not yet trust them? It was merely an instinctual feeling that not all the facts should be stated in front of my half-brother. And so I recited the note, word for word, only leaving out the bit about Moriarty heading a criminal organization.

While I spoke, Holmes had sat down in an armchair, leaning forward intensely, and looking overcast and moody as he contemplated. "Who is this _he – _this guest of your father's you keep mentioning?"

"For personal reasons I'd rather not say right now," I said quickly.

Holmes looked as if he would love nothing more than to argue that he could not make progress on the case without a name, however he respected my wishes – thankfully.

Not a second later I cocked my head, listening to a barely audible commotion from the foyer. "There is a very distressed young boy downstairs," I said.

"However could you –" began my brother. Holmes looked surprised as well.

"My dear Doctor," I told him, "I have done more than my fair share of eavesdropping, particularly this week." It was, in all honesty, the truth. I felt sure I could be in a hearing contest with a jackrabbit.

Only a minute or two passed before the sitting room door burst open, revealing a small, scrawny young lad, not more than 10 years of age, pink-faced and out of breath.

"Peter!" exclaimed Holmes. "What's the matter, my fellow?"

"Wig's sick," he said fast between gasps for air. "Oi figgered oi should come fer yew, Doctor Watson." His Cockney accent was thick. I hadn't a clue what connection this child – who clearly lived on the streets – had to Holmes and my brother, nor did I know who 'Wig' was, but it seemed to spring the Doctor into immediate action.

That was when Peter noticed me, and his cheeks went pinker still. "Oi'm sorry, Mr. 'Olmes, oi didn't know yew 'ad company," he said shamefully.

"Never you mind that, Pete, how is he sick?" asked my brother, reaching for his medical bag behind the table and pulling on a coat.

"Well, 'e's real 'ot, and 'e tosses and turns. Been sleepin' since last night."

I couldn't be sure, but I thought I heard Dr. Watson curse under his breath as he followed Peter out the door.

Holmes must have observed my questioning glance, for he quickly explained. "Peter is one of my Baker Street Irregulars. They are a group of young boys – orphans, mostly – who serve as the unofficial force. They are my eyes and ears on the street. Wiggins, the leader, has evidently taken ill."

"How long will he be gone?"

Holmes shrugged, obviously feeling comfortable with me already. "It depends. Most likely an hour or more."

Good. That gave me time to explain my true situation to Holmes. I had had no idea I would be seeing him, but as long as I was, there could be no harm in enlisting his help. "Perfect," I said quietly. "I am about to fill in the blanks I left in my story."

"That would be ideal," I heard Holmes say as I stood up to stretch my legs. "I can hardly take action without knowledge."

"I am sorry I could not speak freely in front of Dr. Watson. It is a matter of family, and I don't want him personally involved."

Holmes nodded. "I understand, Miss Watson. Would you condescend to tell me who this guest of your stepfather's was?"

I sighed, thinking where to begin. "Did you read in the papers Monday last of the painting robbed from the Museum at the University of St. Andrews?"

He looked surprised. "Why, yes I did. A singular affair. The papers neglected to mention the man whom they suspected of being behind it."

"To avoid scandal, naturally. It was a professor, and he was removed from his post."

"This _does _have a bearing on your situation?"

"Yes. The man who stole the painting is my stepfather's brother. He came to my father to ask for help."

"What, then, was this Professor Ashford's motive for stealing the painting?"

"Not Ashford," I said quickly, looking sharply at him.

"Did you not say that this was your father's name?"

"Not his true surname." My voice was beginning to tremble. "He changed it to avoid connection with his family."

"Who is this family?"

I drew a breath to calm my nerves, which were ignited my the fire of rage in my heart whenever I thought of the man. "The Professor who stole the painting – that is to say my stepfather's brother – goes by the name of James Moriarty."

Holmes' eyebrows lifted in shock. I could tell he'd heard the man's name before.

"It appears that you have heard the name?"

"He is a scientific genius. He's written nearly two dozen mathematical theorems and essays, all of which baffling to the average mind – even mine. Are you suggesting that he is responsible for –"

"I did not quote to you all of the note, Mr. Holmes. And I do have it with me." To prove my statement, I quickly moved to open my satchel, which was still by my side, and pulled out the torn piece of paper filled with my sister's rushed penmanship.

He took it from my grasp, scanning it over in five seconds. "An organization?" he said.

"Yes," I said, nodding. "I have no doubt that he gave the order for my father to be killed. He had the window opened so the origin of the bullet could not be traced."

"You seem quite confident of this fact. Can you tell me what exactly it was you heard them speaking of in your stepfather's study?"

I thought back to the conversation. Had it only been yesterday? "I suppose," I began slowly, "that I had better start with yesterday morning, when we found out about the reasons behind my father changing his name." I explained to him about Moriarty speaking to my stepfather about his "chance for redemption."

"And the conversation?"

"The first thing I heard was Moriarty telling my father that he would regret something. I can only assume this was his refusal to help his brother out of a tight spot. The conversation progressed to my father directly accusing his own brother of having my mother killed. As I previously stated, Moriarty did nothing to deny the fact."

"But did he confirm it?"

"Well..." I mentally replayed the conversation, and repeated the most suspicious part of the conversation as it played itself in my head, as though it were just now happening.

_"Why did you kill her?"_

_"She may have threatened me, Peter, but I am certainly not responsible for her death."_

_"You were always the best actor among us, James. How can I know you aren't bluffing?"_

_"Because having blood on my hands, figuratively, of course, would only tarnish my reputation and ruin my chances of staying out of prison."_

_"Then you had her killed. You can still be held accountable."_

_"I can neither confirm nor deny it."_

He thought this over for a long moment. "Did you ever find his motives for stealing the painting?"

"No," I said. _Lie! _"But we did find a paper while searching my father's study two nights ago – that is to say, the 12th – that confirmed he was the mathematics professor at the University of St. Andrews. There is no doubt that it was him."

Holmes was silent, and I feared he was skeptical. "You do agree with me, don't you, Mr. Holmes?"

"He is playing a game of his own design," he mused softly. "I have long been aware of some distinguishing malefactor in the higher criminal world. Some large organization with many agents hidden well in various places."

I had been staring at my lap. Now I snapped my head up to stare at him. "Do you think this is it?"

"I cannot yet be sure," he said.

I leaped up from my seat and began to pace the hearthrug. I must convince him to help me. "I hardly knew my – now I know to call him – _step_father, so that wasn't the hardest of blows. Rest assured, I've endured harder. But we – I – cannot allow him to get away with taking my sister from me. He's wronged me once, twice, now three times in my life. He's taken from me the three people I love most. I'm sure you understand, Mr. Holmes, that I _need _your help."

"You _need _closure. Who's to say I can give you that?"

I pondered, not for the first time, telling him of Moriarty's interest in his career, but –perhaps selfishly – decided against it. Moriarty was for me to bring down, and even though Holmes was helping me to do it, I didn't want him to develop his own personal vendettas.

Instead, I said, "Trust me, Mr. Holmes, this is not something you want to miss being a part of. I could go to Scotland Yard, if you like."

"No," said Holmes quickly. "It is likely with them that you wouldn't succeed." As he spoke this piece of advice, I noted that his voice dripped with disdain.

"So you think it is worth investigating?" I prodded, heart pounding in my excitement.

"I most definitely think it is worth looking into," said Holmes with a slight nod.

"Well then," I said after exhaling a breath of relief, "I shall lay down our _status quo_."

Holmes looked seriously at me, waiting.

I took a deep breath. "He's now killed both my parents. I need your help to take down his organization, but I fear we haven't much to go on."

* * *

_A/N: No, Watson will not actually know about Moriarty. We wouldn't want him getting himself killed on a personal revenge mission, would we? Ah, but will Emily ever tell Holmes that Moriarty is fascinated by his career? How will Emily and Holmes go about investigating without Watson knowing? That's the great stealth part, my friends! And for those of you who do not know, 'status quo' means 'the current state of affairs.' Whee, I love Latin! I hope to have the next chapter up by the end of the week, but don't blame me if it doesn't happen. Please review! -SWS_


	10. Without His Knowledge

_A/N: I greatly apologize for this not being up when I had intended. Other pursuits of my life got in the way and a lack of motivation gave way to writers block. But here we are, and I do believe you will find this worth the wait. Please enjoy! -SWS_

* * *

**_~Chapter 10: Without His Knowledge~_**

"What exactly is it that we know?" Holmes asked me, his voice level.

My stomach churned. I still couldn't tell him the truth, and if I did now, he'd know I'd lied to him, which might cause him to repeal his acceptance to help. Then what would I do? I'd dug myself into a hole and was too ashamed to climb out. "He taught at the University of St. Andrews, in Scotland, stole that painting, was discreetly removed from his post to avoid scandal, and came to Thorndon to ask his biological brother for help. When his brother refused, he had him killed. He runs a criminal organization, about which my sister found out, causing her to be abducted," I said, leaving out the bit about Holmes once again.

"How did you and your sister come to know he stole the painting?"

I explained about our search of Father's study and the connection we made, having observed the pamphlet in his coat pocket from the unveiling of the Vernet canvas.

"And yet you could not, despite your best efforts, discover what he wanted with the painting?"

"When we met him in the Northwestern Passageway we confronted him about it. He merely threatened us and wouldn't say any more on the subject."

"What did he say?"

"That we were meddling in affairs that were not our business, and that curiosity always kills the cat."

"And that was all?"

"That was all." I couldn't believe that I felt no remorse in telling the lie.

"Anything else I should know about this Moriarty or your stepfather's relation to him?"

"There was something about the family casting off my father because he wasn't like the rest of them, and then his changing his name to avoid being associated with his relations."

"And do you know if he ever was associated with his family?"

"I can only assume he was at some point. The traditional Moriarty estate is but twenty miles from Thorndon. Even though he was intensely antisocial, he was well-liked enough in town, and if they knew anything about his heritage, they didn't let it on."

"Did you ever visit the vicinity of the Moriarty estate?"

"No, my stepfather never allowed us more than twenty miles from home, but we never had reason to go beyond the limits of Thorndon."

"Do you have any idea why this was?"

Like a firecracker exploding into the sky, Moriarty's words popped into my head.

_"Your father was always into something, incurring the wrath of certain people who have been seeking a way to silence him for years. It looks as if some of them have finally succeeded."_

"He said this right after the cry of murder," I told Holmes after repeating the words.

"You said your stepfather rarely left the grounds, correct?"

"Hardly ever, to my memory."

"Have you any vague idea who these certain people may be?" Holmes appeared extremely interested. "Anyone with whom your father had any altercations?"

I shrugged. "As I said, he hardly left the house at all. He kept to himself, a very quiet man, and drove himself into further seclusion after my mother passed. It was a miracle if he ever spoke to anyone, let alone enough to actually have an argument. The only exception being Moriarty, his own brother, whom I suspect he hadn't seen since my father left them."

And you have absolutely no clue who killed him?"

I shook my head. "No more than you do, Mr. Holmes. You know from the newspapers that the window was opened, and the shot likely came from 100 to 150 yards away. My father was shot directly in the head and most likely died a relatively fast death."

Still I paced the length of the hearthrug, and I knew if I sat down again my legs would be shaking far too badly from sheer restlessness. I wished – oh, how I wished! – that I had the firm and familiar grip of my violin beneath my fingers, that I could allow my mind to wander with the notes and to feel absolutely in control of what was played.

But then I spotted it, tucked away in a shadowy corner beside the fireplace. A Stradivarius, much like my own, the polished wood gleaming in the soft gaslight. _Did Holmes play? _My eyes swiftly traveled back to the aquiline man perched on the very edge of his armchair.

His keen eyes followed the path of my own, and he stared at me, head cocked to an angle. "Do you play?" he asked, surprised.

"Yes," I said, breaking into a half-smile. "It often soothes my nerves and helps me to think. I left my own in Thorndon. May I?" I gestured toward the instrument.

I got the impression from Holmes' expression that he rarely allowed anyone but himself to lay hands on the precious creation, but he appeared genuinely curious to see how practiced I was. "Be my guest," he said quietly, extending a hand.

Slowly, and somewhat shakily, I picked up the beautiful piece and examined its curves.

"There are books of sheet music under the table there," said Holmes, nodding at the stained wooden table.

I shook my head. "Thank you, but that won't be necessary," I said, poising the bow just above the strings. I began to play the first piece of classical music I could think of.

Holmes' eyebrows quickly shot up. "Mendelssohn's Violin Concerto in E minor," he said. "Impressive, by memory."

I swayed in time with the music, allowing my mind to wander. After so many years my hands knew what they were doing without my mind's help.

After I'd finished the piece, Holmes smiled and applauded me softly. "Remarkable," he praised me with a laugh.

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes," I said, setting the violin gently so as to hide the blush that had risen on my cheeks.

"Who taught you to play?"

"My mother." My voice was soft now as I remembered her careful instruction and gentle guidance.

Holmes lapsed into silence, his head resting one hand, staring moodily into space for the next few moments. I admit that I was either too bashful or afraid to speak.

Then he abruptly stood up and pulled a rope beside the dinner table, inevitably ringing a bell somewhere else in the house.

A moment later the door opened, revealing the woman who had shown me up before. "Ah! Mrs. Hudson, would you bring up luncheon for two? Dr. Watson can eat when he returns."

"Yes, Mr. Holmes," said Mrs. Hudson, and began to turn away.

"Oh, and Mrs. Hudson?"

"Yes, dear?"

"Kindly step outside and ask the constable in front of the door to go fetch Inspector Lestrade."

Mrs. Hudson nodded and walked away briskly.

"Is she the housekeeper?" I asked, thinking of Mrs. Hunter back home.

"Actually," said Holmes, "she's our landlady."

"And who, pray tell, is Inspector Lestrade?"

"He is from Scotland Yard."

I raised my eyebrows curiously. "I thought they wouldn't be of much help."

"They can be of assistance on occasion, especially in gathering information on larger cases."

"So I see." And in fact, I rather did. "So that you know," I said, drawing Holmes' attention, "I had no clue until today that you lived here. I was only informed of this address as that of my half-brother, Dr. Watson."

"You've heard of me, though?"

Once again I remembered Moriarty's words and felt myself sicken. "You could say that," I said quietly, somewhat distracted by the sound of footsteps upon the stair, and Holmes courteously opened the door for Mrs. Hudson, who was bearing a heavily laden tray.

At the sight of the food, all traces of nausea vanished, and I realized that all I'd eaten today was the bit of bread this morning, with a cup of tea on the train.

Holmes pulled out a chair for me, and I gave him a grateful smile, sitting down. He took a chair across from me, and I took two sandwiches from the tray onto my plate. They appeared to be made with ham, cheese, and lettuce.

As I took a bite, I heard my stomach rumble appreciatively. After I finished, I found myself wanting more, but did not think it would seem very polite, so I merely sat, sipping my tea.

Holmes studied me covertly – though I did indeed know he was watching – for a moment, then picked up the tray and offered it to me. "We wouldn't want you starving to death," he said. "Please, take more."

I smiled at him and obliged, taking another sandwich and beginning to nibble at it between sips of tea.

Another minute had passed before I realized that Holmes was still staring at me.

"Yes?" I prompted him, setting down my teacup with a soft clink.

"Is there anything...else I should know about you?"

"Pardon?"

"You no doubt have an excellent eye for details. You are learned in the arts of observation and deduction. You play the violin, for heaven's sake, is there anything else which could confirm that the information has been gotten wrong, and that you are actually _my _long-lost sister?"

I nearly laughed. From what I had so far seen from the man, this was not the kind of comment usually expected to come out of his mouth.

I thought for a moment. _How much was safe to say? How much could he handle so soon? _I could already tell that Sherlock Holmes was not a weak man, but I surely couldn't saddle him with everything at once. "Well," I began slowly, choosing my words, "I was schooled by my mother, before her death, in the sophisticated arts of the gentry: embroidery and stitching, dancing, and etiquette – though by no means do I enjoy them. I am quite partial to horseback riding and exploring gardens, secret passageways, caves, and any other place. I love reading, and writing is a fancy of mine as well." I decided that adding anything else would be a stretch.

It was then that I heard footsteps upon the stair. I cocked my head as Holmes opened his mouth to reply. "Would that be..."

Holmes pushed back his chair and went to open the door. "Hello, Lestrade," I heard him say, stepping aside to allow the man to enter.

Inspector Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, turned out to be a short but quite thin man, his eyes looking tired and his chin full two days worth of stubble.

"Haven't been home in two days, I see," said Holmes, looking the Inspector up and down. "The Farmers case, is it?"

"Yes indeed, Mr. Holmes," said Lestrade, sounding weary but alert. "And who is the guest?"

"Ah. She is the reason I wanted you to be in attendance."

"Is she a client?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes." Holmes then nodded in my direction, which I took as a signal to introduce myself.

I stood up and extended my hand for a shake. "Emily Madeline Watson," I said.

"As in _Dr. _Watson?" Lestrade's eyebrows were significantly raised.

"Yes, I am his half-sister, sir."

Lestrade took my hand, and I blushed when he kissed it. It was a sign of respect, I knew, but I had been aiming for professionalism and maturity.

"Miss Watson has discovered that her stepfather's brother, Professor James Moriarty, runs a large criminal organization. He has killed her mother and stepfather, and as far as we know abducted her sister, Ariana."

Upon linking my name with Ariana's, Lestrade's brow furrowed. "Would this be in connection with the death of Sir Peter Ashford?"

"He was my stepfather, sir," I said softly.

"My condolences," said Lestrade with a slight nod at me.

"I thought we should most likely involve the official force in a case of this magnitude." Holmes' face was very serious. "We haven't very much information to go on, I'm sorry to say."

"And why isn't Dr. Watson here?" Lestrade asked.

Holmes exchanged a glance with me before replying. "He's with a patient," said Holmes hesitantly, "but we thought it best that he not know."

"So we're proceeding without his knowledge, then?" Lestrade inquired, eyes suddenly assuming a professional glint.

"Yes, we are."

Lestrade took a seat on the wicker chair by the unlit fireplace. "Very well. What is known?"

* * *

_A/N: Why, yes, Lestrade, what is known? I give my solemn word to try and have the next chapter finished as soon as possible. I am currently in a rather Victorian mood, having just watched Sense and Sensibility with my mother and grandmother. And I can tell you that Alan Rickman looks totally out of place with blond hair. But so does Benedict Cumberbatch, so what can I say?  
_

_A note I must make: **cjnwriter**, my beta-reader, is leaving school at the end of the month, and we will be starting to use a slightly different method of sending her my chapters, since she will be returning the school's laptop for the summer. Depending on her schedule, updates may be a wee bit slow during that time, but please bear with us.  
_

_Hope you enjoyed, and please review! -SWS_


	11. Unknown Dangers

_A/N: Hello, again! I am certainly glad I was able to get this chapter out in less than a week. May I just say that this is the longest chapter yet, and that in my official document (without author's notes and stuff) I have reached 20,000 words! Thank you to all my readers who have been with me these last few months I have been writing this, and please send your gratitude along to **cjnwriter**, my lovely Boswell and beta-reader. You owe all this to her. Now, please enjoy this chapter! -SWS_

* * *

**_~Chapter 11: Unknown Dangers~_**

Inspector Lestrade slowly shook his head. "An organization of crime," he said. "Holmes, you know I'll have to run this by the Commissioner's office."

"No." Holmes' voice was sharp as he rapidly met Lestrade's gaze.

"Holmes, it's a complete breach of protocol!"

"Don't you think it likely that Moriarty's organization has agents planted in numerous places, including the police force?"

"Surely you don't think –"

"My dear Inspector, how else do you imagine he has been able to pull off a scheme of this magnitude without being caught?"

Sherlock Holmes made an excellent point, and as I saw Lestrade swallow hard, I could tell that he knew it too.

"Very well. However, if I am caught withholding important information, I will implicate you, Holmes."

"Understood, Inspector."

"I should hope so. Now, there are a few details of another case I need to make sure the Home Office is informed of. With your consent, I shall take my leave."

"Thank you, Lestrade," said Holmes, nodding.

"A good day to you, Inspector," I said, smiling politely.

And with a final goodbye, Inspector Lestrade left us.

As the door shut with a soft click, I turned to stare at Holmes. "Do you honestly distrust the Commissioner's office that much?"

"I will say that Commissioner Lynch is far less inept than Commissioner Harrison was, but he still isn't the most competent of fellows in the string of them the Yard has recently seen."

"But how do you expect to progress on the case without the full support of the Force behind us?"

"It will take time," said Holmes slowly, no doubt pondering his choice of words, "and it will be a tough journey, but with a measure of strength and perseverance we will pull through the tunnel. We will make sure that light is shined upon this gruesome matter."

"How long before we know enough to put it out for the public?"

"I can tell you that it won't be any time particularly soon, Miss Watson," said Holmes gravely. "It will require quite a bit of surreptitious sleuthing on my part."

"Why not my part?" I asked indignantly. "If anything, I'm even more a part of this than you are!"

"Moriarty _knows _you, Emily," he said apologetically, and I was surprised foremost by his use of my first name.

_He knows you too, _I thought bitterly, wanting to say this out loud and dissuade him from personally attempting to infiltrate Moriarty's syndicate or some such thing. Outwardly, however, I stared at the oriental carpet on the floor and stayed silent.

"Until we can plot a safe and thorough course of action, however," Holmes continued suddenly, bringing me back to the reality of the present, "I suggest we wait for the good Doctor to return."

* * *

The days passed like sand slipping into the bottom portion of an hourglass, and over the next week I found myself observing with interest and even growing used to the living habits of my half-brother and the rather eccentric Sherlock Holmes.

It was upon the afternoon of the 21st of August that I found myself alone in the flat; even Mrs. Hudson was busying herself at the flower stands in Covent Garden or some such place. I was pacing the hardwood floor of my bedroom, a cheerily decorated spare room at the top of the stairs Mrs. Hudson had kindly prepared for me, and allowing my mind and imagination to wander, in lieu of the answers I wanted so desperately but did not have.

Holmes had hardly been present at 221 Baker Street since the day I had arrived. I hadn't a clue what he could be working on, or if he'd discovered anything pertaining to the Moriarty case. If he had come up with anything at all, I should like to be informed. And if he was on a different case entirely, I would relish the opportunity to give my idle brain a challenge of any sort.

How could I find out without asking him directly? Of course_. _His desk, where he kept (as far as I knew), all records and correspondence pertaining to his current cases.

Snooping did happen to be what I did best...

I had made up my mind. Slipping into my shoes so as not to trod in anything in only my stocking feet, I turned the doorknob and stepped into the upstairs hall.

As soon as I set foot in the hallway, I could sense some presence in the house. Silently, I shut the door and crept in the direction of the sitting room.

The door was already slightly ajar. I pushed it open to survey the scene and froze, staring at the man sitting casually on the sofa with his legs crossed, smoking, as if he were here every day.

"Hello, Miss Emily," said Professor Moriarty.

Cautiously, watching for even a single one of his muscles to twitch, I entered the room, staying near the door, which I had left open. "What the blazes are you doing here?" I asked, hatred filling my voice.

He chuckled. " Mind your language, Miss Emily. You thought I didn't know this was where you'd gone?"

I was silent, looking around the room for a possible weapon should I need one.

"I admit you had me at first," he continued. "Buying that decoy train ticket was a very nice touch. I had no idea what you'd done until I returned to Thorndon and tested the ticket master's memory even further."

I swallowed, only just managing to keep myself from springing forward to do as much bodily harm to him as I possibly could. "Holmes knows."

Moriarty raised one eyebrow as if in questioning. "How much does he know?"

"What are you talking about?" I admit that my voice shook.

_You know exactly what he's talking about, _I chided myself silently.

"Did you tell him about his great-great-great-uncle's painting?"

"Yes."

"So he knows why it was stolen, correct?"

My mouth didn't seem to remember how to work. "No," I finally said.

Moriarty's mouth twisted into a sort of wry smile. "I thought not."

"You never answered my question," I said coldly. "Why are you here?"

"It is to warn you, Miss Emily," said Moriarty, grinding out his cigarette in an ashtray sitting among scattered papers on the side table. "It would pain me to have to take action against your curiosities. I do not wish to reunite you and your sister in that way."

My heart began to pound even more painfully than before. "What have you done with her?" I asked in a low, menacing voice, still barely controlling my rage.

He chuckled, a deep, menacing sound I had hoped to never hear again. "Do not worry yourself, your sister is still alive, Miss Emily. She is in a safe place, where she will be prevented from causing any more trouble."

"Get. Out." I snarled in anger. "You will pay."

Moriarty picked up his hat and cane from where they rested beside the door. "But not today," he said with a conspiratorial wink as he swept past me into the hall.

I stared after him with venomous eyes as he descended the stairs with surprising agility.

"Good day, Miss Watson," he called almost jovially as he opened the door.

I made no reply as he shut the door behind him. Crossing to the window, I pushed aside the curtain and watched Professor Moriarty step into a waiting carriage, and speak something to the cabby, who tugged at the reigns and jolted the team of horses into a quick trot.

Watching the man I loathed slip away once again, a lump formed in the back of my throat.

With a silent curse, I dropped the heavy drapes and sank shakily onto the floor.

I had hardly shed a tear since coming to Baker Street – in fact, I had not cried since the night I escaped Thorndon Hall.

And so, not knowing what other action to take, I began to sob.

Some time later, I heard Mrs. Hudson return and retired to my bedroom, saying that I had a slight headache, and no, she should not send for my brother to return from his club.

Collapsing onto my bed, my tears were renewed and the floodgates opened.

I felt vulnerable, helpless, and there didn't seem to be anything I could do.

* * *

_I need to set myself free, _I decided a few hours later, as I sat on my bed with my shaking hands clenching the sheets tightly.

It might be too late to completely mend the mistake, but it would do it no good to keep it a secret forever, and it would certainly be worse if he were allowed to discover the truth on his own.

Since Moriarty could evidently get into the house without any problems, I couldn't go on putting others at risk. Holmes needed to know the whole truth.

Wiping the traces of tears from my eyes and my sweaty palms on my skirt, I left my bedchamber and silently made my way to the sitting room.

I entered to find John, my dear brother whom I had already grown to love, seated on the sofa – in the same seat Moriarty had occupied just hours before.

"Is Holmes here?" I asked timidly when he looked up.

"I am afraid he is not," said John, putting down his newspaper to study my face intently with a physician's critical eye. "Are you quite all right, my dear? You've missed dinner entirely, and you look deucedly pale."

I shook my head. "I'm fine, thank you. There was merely something I wished to discuss with Holmes. Do you have any idea where he's gone, or when he'll be back?"

"I don't. May I help you?"

I replied in the negative once again. "No, thank you," I said. "Please don't bother over me."

And without further explanation or words of any kind, I turned and left the room, descending the stairs and having every intention to wait for Holmes in the foyer – all night if I must.

At the bottom of the steps I very nearly collided with Mrs. Hudson, who was carrying a stack of freshly cleaned and pressed linens.

"Mrs. Hudson," I said, reaching out an arm to stop her, "Did Holmes happen to tell you anything about where he was going, or when he'd be back?"

She smiled apologetically. "Not a thing, dear," she said kindly. "He was just up and out the door, off on some foxhunt of his, I'm sure."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," I said.

Sitting down in the upholstered chair by the coat rack near the door, I curled my legs up under my skirt, settled into a semi-comfortable position, and began to wait, my eyes beginning to droop as the grandfather clock counted the minutes as they passed with a steady _tick, tick, tick. _

* * *

I awoke to a gentle hand shaking me on the shoulder. When I opened my eyes, I started, suddenly fully awake, to find Holmes bent over me, concerned, his Inverness cloak soaking wet.

"What on earth happened to you?" I asked, alarmed.

"I took an unexpected dip in the Thames," said Holmes flippantly, with a wave of his hand. "Now, I take it you were waiting down here because you wished to speak to me when I returned? It must be urgent, if you would wish to accost me almost as soon as I walked in the door, and if you have been here long enough to fall so deeply asleep." He knelt down beside the chair. "Pray tell me, what is the matter?"

The entirety of the reason I had been waiting here came back to me, and I took a breath. "It's to do with Moriarty. And the painting. And you."

Holmes' eyebrows raised in surprise, though his perfectly controlled attitude showed no other outward signs of it. His face remained otherwise passive, gazing intently at me with sharp gray eyes, the very color of cold steel. "With me?"

I took in another deep breath and nodded. "Moriarty came to visit this afternoon."

The eyebrows raised even higher. "_Here?_"

I nodded, my gaze fixed on the ground. "He said he came to warn me to stay off the case, that he does not wish to do to me as he did to Ariana."

"And did he say what that was?"

"Not specifically. He said he did not kill her, but that she was in a safe place where she would not cause trouble."

"Emily, why did you not send a message to Scotland Yard immediately?" The tone of his voice was urgent.

After averting my gaze for too long I raised my head to look into his eyes. "Because there was something I needed to tell expressly you."

"What is it?"

His voice had taken on a softer and gentler quality than I'd ever imagined could be possible for him.

I opened my mouth and hesitated. Was I doing the right thing? _Yes, _I told myself sternly. _Now speak. _"I confess that I lied to you, and I cannot blame you in the slightest if you do not feel you can continue to help me after this."

Holmes' brow crinkled in confusion. "What on earth do you mean?"

"Claude Joseph Vernet was your great-great-great uncle."

Surprise and shock lit up Holmes' face. His voice suddenly dropped as he leaned closer to me in an urgent manner. "However did you know that?"

"Moriarty told me," I said, voice trembling.

"Today?"

I shook my head, chestnut-brown curls falling in my face.

"When, then?"

"When Ariana and I met him in the passageway. He revealed that he stole the painting in hopes of attracting your attention."

"Why did you not say anything before?"

I dropped my head again. "I admit that I was foolish. I wanted Moriarty to be mine, and solely mine. I did not take into account that even though I had obtained help, I might be putting those I had enlisted in needless danger. Until today."

Holmes studied me in silence for a moment before answering. "I thank you for telling me. Now you had best get up to bed; it is after midnight."

I glanced up at the clock and realized for the first time that the great hands were indeed pointing to nearly half past twelve.

I rose and turned to go up the stairs, but Holmes stopped me. "We will make this a team effort," he promised.

I nodded wearily and climbed the 17 stairs to my bedroom. I only hoped this would indeed turn out for the best.

* * *

_A/N: Yes, she finally told Holmes. Maybe she'll be able to cope better now. Sorry if these seem like shorter A/N's than usual, I just don't have a lot to add. That said, I'll do my best to update soon, and please review! -SWS  
_


	12. The Absentee Statesman

_A/N: Hey guys, I'm back. *waves meekly* I apologize for the absence, I had extended writer's block. I am past that now, for the most part. So, in this chapter, Emily gets a chance to completely prove herself when a high-profile case is brought to Baker Street. Many thanks to my Boswell and beta-reader, __**cjnwriter**__. She is the Grammar Nazi behind this story. Enjoy, my dears! -SWS_

* * *

**_~Chapter 12: The Absentee Statesman~_**

* * *

Two more weeks yielded no results in terms of the Moriarty case – at least as far as I knew. I watched Holmes' clients come and go from a distance, being asked not to present myself to them, as they likely did not know who I was, nor would they have any interest in speaking in front of me. I believe that I was also separated from the Genius Detective's business because of a measure of danger which was present. From what I could tell, Holmes greatly respected me and my desire to revenge myself upon Moriarty, and did not want me to put myself in extra jeopardy. It was at least comforting that he did not doubt my capabilities.

After heavily discussing it, Holmes and I had decided that it was best to tell John that a man named James Moriarty had been behind my stepfather's death so as to avoid his questioning about why I had not revealed a name. However, he had been falsely informed that the police were taking immediate action.

On the 4th of September, Holmes was engaged in a chemical experiment of some sort, and the room was filled with rancid smoke. In an attempt to clear my head, I was preparing to go out for a walk in the nearby Regent's Park. The weather was cool, so I pulled on a fleece-lined cloak. Mrs. Hudson had quickly seen to it that my wardrobe was updated to be fit for the city.

I stepped out the door and – once I had shut it behind me – began to descend the steps. I was almost immediately approached by a man who had cropped dark hair and a rather blunted face and was crisply dressed – I did not think he could have been over the age of 30. "Excuse me, miss, would that be number 221 you just left?" He spoke with a strong accent I recognized as Russian, seeming quite frightened, speaking anxiously.

"Why yes, it would," I replied cautiously. "Were you looking for it, sir?"

"Yes, I am, miss. It is the residence of Sherlock Holmes, is it not?"

"It is."

"May I come in, then? I have found myself placed in a terrible situation."

"Certainly. I will show you up to the sitting room, Mr. ..."

"Koval," he replied. "My name is Dmitri Koval."

I entered 221B once more and showed our visitor to the sitting room, where Holmes was excitedly bending over the acid-stained table. I was relieved to see that the smoke had dissipated quite a bit.

Pausing in the doorway, I announced the client, whose hands, I observed, were twitching nervously and slick with sweat as they toyed with his tie. "Holmes, this is Mr. Dmitri Koval. He is very much in need of assistance."

Holmes straightened and swept over to shake Koval's hand jovially. "Good afternoon, Mr. Koval. I am Sherlock Holmes, and over here is my loyal friend and associate, Dr. Watson. Beside you is the Doctor's sister, Miss Emily, who has shown you up. You are a political aide, I see?"

My observational powers were strong, but I confess I had no idea how Holmes had deduced such a thing. Apparently, neither did Koval. "Mr. Holmes, how in the world did you know that?"

"Your tie and shoes, of course!" exclaimed Holmes, as if the answer should be plainly obvious.

"Do not mind him, Mr. Koval," advised John. "He quite enjoys showing off. Pray take a seat and explain why you have come."

I was turning to leave, and perhaps take my walk, when Holmes stopped me. "Emily, please stay, if you would not mind. You brought this gentleman to us, I think you have earned the privilege of learning the particulars."

Rather flustered by this, I shakily consented and proceeded to take a seat beside my brother.

"I must ask you three to agree to let nothing I have said leave this room," said Mr. Koval, fingering his tie once more.

"Of course it will not," I assured him, confirming the fact by eyeing my two companions until they nodded.

Koval nodded, satisfied. "Good. The matter is of a political nature, and quite delicate. I'm afraid if word of it got out, it could very well cause a war."

I drew back slightly, alarmed at the brevity and importance of the situation.

"Mr. Koval, may I ask what on earth has happened?" inquired Holmes.

Our client drew a deep, calming breath before speaking. "I am here from Moscow as an aide to the renowned Russian statesman Alexei Ivanov. We were sent in an attempt to establish a peaceful liaison in your government. However, the visit has taken a terrible turn as of this morning."

"How so?" asked Holmes, leaning forward to better absorb information.

"Mr. Ivanov has been kidnapped, Mr. Holmes," said Koval urgently.

Holmes leapt up and began to pace, much as he did the day I presented the circumstances of my case to him. "Approximately what time did you find this to be so?"

"About eight o'clock this morning, Mr. Holmes. When I came downstairs to collect my mail from the concierge desk, there was an incredibly eccentric and anonymous note among them, appearing to follow some sort of code, and asking for a ransom. It alarmed me very much, so I got a spare key for Mr. Ivanov's room from the desk. I went in and discovered he room empty. There were no signs of a struggle, but he had vanished. There is no word of him arriving at the Foreign Office this morning."

"Have you gone to the police, Mr. Koval?" asked Holmes. "They would be more prepared to deal with this delicate matter than I."

"They would not look into it," said Koval, shaking his head. "They said that the note must surely be a joke of some kind, and that since everything in his room was in place, Mr. Ivanov must have merely gone out somewhere in the city."

Holmes nodded thoughtfully. "We must accept this as a possibility, I'm afraid. May I see the note, Mr. Koval?"

"Of course." From his inside coat pocket, Koval drew a plain envelope, addressed in block letters to one Dmitri Koval, of room 214 at the Northumberland Hotel.

He handed the envelope to Holmes, who studied it intently before opening it to peruse the contents.

"Is the entire note in block lettering?" I asked Holmes as he stared at the single sheet of paper.

"I am afraid so," said Holmes regretfully. "There is nothing to be deduced from the writing itself. The paper is the hotel's own stationery, and the language used in the note is quite...nonsensical."

"Read it out loud," I suggested. "Perhaps we could all together make something of it."

Holmes cleared his throat and began to read.

" 'Fifteen men on the dead man's chest— Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum! Drink and the devil had done for the rest— Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum! Admiral Benbow has the answers at best— Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum! The treasure you'll give me to add to my nest— Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum! Search for my name on my very own crest— Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum! I'll bet you can't find me before the inquest— Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum! And if you bring help I'll kill my dear guest— Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum! Good luck and good day, and may you be blessed— Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!' "

My eyes went wide as I recognized the first four lines. But when John opened his mouth to speak, I thought that he at least would understand from whence it came. "May I ask who in the world Admiral Benbow is?" he inquired, brow furrowed.

I inwardly groaned. A modern adventure story, a tale of pirates and treasure – of course most grown men had not read it. "Actually, the Admiral Benbow is the name of an inn. That and the first four lines of the note are taken straight from Robert Louis Stevenson's _Treasure Island._"

"So are you saying that we must go to this inn to find the answers?" Holmes asked me, eyebrows raised skeptically.

"That isn't possible," I replied promptly. "The inn is a fictional location. I believe the author of this note intended it to mean that the answer lies in the story of _Treasure Island _itself. And since no one else here appears to have read it...perhaps I can be of assistance on the case."

* * *

Sighing, I rearranged my skirts for what felt like the millionth time and remembered Holmes' instructions. I was to alert the police of the matter concerning the disappearance of Mr. Ivanov and then make my way to the Northumberland Hotel to question the members of the hotel concierge.

I glanced at the clock on the wall, which seemed to mock my idle mind with each repetitive tick-tock. I had been waiting in the Commissioner's office for nearly three quarters of an hour.

I had been trying to sit politely on the settee I had been shown to by the meek and petite young secretary, but I was far too restless. My curious mind wanted to know more about Chief Commissioner Lynch. Almost as if I was unable to control my own limbs, I found myself standing up and walking over to the cluttered desk.

A lead bust of Benjamin Disraeli, a former Prime Minister, was being used as a paperweight, holding down a thick stack of official looking documents. I picked it up and skimmed some of the papers.

_"I do not wish to impose upon your Majesty's evening, but the situation is really quite desperate," _I read from one of the pieces on top. It was written in miniscule, hurried script, and appeared to be an unfinished letter to Her Majesty Queen Victoria herself. I would have read more, but I really had no idea how much longer I had before Lynch arrived.

With another quick look at the time, I bent down and tugged on one of the desk drawers. I cursed under my breath. It was locked. The next one, however, opened under my touch. It was filled with what looked to be outdated parliamentary debates and...a gun.

_How odd, _I thought. Why would _this_ drawer be unlocked rather than the others?

As I frowned at the mystery I now could not help but wonder at, the door of the office suddenly opened. Heart pounding in the back of my throat, I immediately shot to my feet.

In the doorway stood a fair-skinned, dark-haired boy of average height. He stood, arms crossed and head tilted to one side, staring at me with his eyes narrowed. "I'm sure I have no desire to know what you're doing," he said, shaking his head rather amusedly.

I had no idea who he was, but I had more than a sneaking suspicion that he could easily get me into trouble. "I can explain," I quickly blurted. "I was just –"

The boy held up a hand. "No need." He stepped forward and extended his hand. "Andrew Lynch," he introduced himself. "And you are?"

"Emily Watson," I said, taking his hand.

Andrew Lynch lifted it and kissed it. "I trust you are here to see my father, Miss Watson?"

"I am," I replied.

"Well, I cannot help but wonder what sort of errand might cause you to come here. Outside of my father's secretary, I have never known any female to enter this room."

I cocked my head, a ghost of a smile playing at the corners of my mouth. "I think you've formed enough questions," I said.

"Do I not get any answers from you?" he asked, again sounding quite amused.

"That was another question," I informed him. "And I do not believe my business is any of yours."

Andrew's face held an expression of mock offense, and his voice betrayed that he was perhaps a little impressed. "My, I have come across a feisty one."

I adjusted my hat, staring him straight in the eye. "It's how I get what I want. Now it's my turn to ask a question or two."

Andrew stood still, waiting.

"Does the Chief Commissioner's son often loiter around Scotland Yard?"

"I am not loitering, I am helping my father."

"And how do the officers take to that?"

"You have not answered my questions about yourself, why should I oblige?"

"Well, I have one more inquiry that does not pertain to you."

"All right." His eyes glinted with a hidden fire.

"Will I be able to see your father today, or should I come back? I do have pressing business elsewhere."

"It depends. How pressing?"

"A life could hang in the balance."

"Well then, I would suggest that you take care of that first and come back tomorrow. My father should be in after half past two."

I nodded. "Thank you," I said, and headed towards the door.

Andrew took a step in my direction. "Wait. Who sent you here?"

I paused. "Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

Andrew's face showed disbelief. Using the leverage of the moment, I wished him a good day and walked briskly down the hallway.

* * *

Though I had never before been there, I could pick out the massive hotel the moment I stepped out of the cab. It stood out boldly from the other nondescript buildings along Euston Road. I stepped inside the elaborate lobby and my eyes widened. The floor was of gleaming marble tile, and it perfectly reflected the image of the shimmering chandeliers hung from the ceiling.

I was the only possible patron in the room, so the concierge at the desk looked up right away when I entered.

"Can I help you, miss?" he asked, closing the address book he appeared to be updating.

"Yes, I'm looking for Mr. Lambert, would you happen to know where he is?"

"I haven't seen him all day, ma'am. Maybe I can help you?"

I shook my head vehemently. "I must insist that I speak with Mr. Lambert directly."

The concierge looked uncomfortable. "I can't leave my post, ma'am, but you could check the employee's lounge down this hallway here." He gestured at a hall entrance behind him, and I made my way behind the desk and towards the lounge.

I opened the door marked Employee's Lounge and immediately stopped.

A man with a name tag reading Lambert was lying in the middle of the floor, face up, face frozen in shock and maybe a bit of pain. There was blood, spreading in a pool from under his head. I kneeled and reached down to touch Lambert's wrist. He was, of course, dead, but his skin was still warm.

I stood up and nearly ran out of the room and straight into the concierge from the desk, who had apparently been curious enough to leave his post after all.

I glanced at his name tag. "Mr. McAllister, would you happen to have a telephone I could use?"

* * *

_A/N: Yes...yes, I just thoughtlessly disposed of a non-essential character. Actually, there was a lot of thought behind this. It has a bearing on the plot, as it happens. Well. I'd love to know your thoughts on this story, so please leave a review. I'm sure you know how. Hope you enjoyed, and I'll try to have more up in the future. -SWS  
_


End file.
